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UNITED STATES OF AaiERICA. 



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COPYRIGHTED. 



TREAGER ft LAMB, PKINTERS, 
PHILADHLPHIA. 







CONTKNTS 



The Pine Tref, . 

Boudoir, . 

Elm, . . . 

Orioles, . 

Hope, .... 

Harvest Apple, 

Day Lilies, 

Embers, . 

Crucified, . 

Loss or Gain, 

Love, .... 

April, 

Quail, 

Crocus, . 

Baby Gray, 

Humming Bird, 

Grandaddy-Long-Legs, 



PAGE 

9 
13 
14 
18 
21 
22 
24 
26 
28 
32 
35 
37 
40 

41 
42 
46 
49 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Violin, . . . . . . . . 51 

March, . . . . . . . . 57 

Mk;non, ......... 59 

The Larks, ........ 63 

Robin, ......... 65 

Daffodil, ......... 67 

Goldfinches, ........ 69 

Wren's Nest, 71 

Rose and Brier, ....... 73 

The Judge's Pigeons ....... 75 

The Partridge's Nest ....... 77 

The Northern Light, ...... 81 

Spider, ......... 84 

The Youngest, ........ 87 

Nature's Care, . 89 

Grandma and Jo, . . . . . . . 91 

Queen Bess, ........ 93 

Linnet, ... . . , , . . . 95 

Migratory Birds, ....... 99 

Mary, .......... 101 

Pansy and Mignonette, . . . . . 103 

Long Ago, 106 

Oats, 108 

The Four Sisters, . . . . . .110 



Vine, 

The Aged Monk, 



"3 
"5 



CONTENTS. 5 

PAGE 

Grandfather Gray, . . . . . . 117 

Cardinal Flower, . . . . . . .119 

Grass, . . . . . . . . • 121 

Jeannie and John, . . ■. . .123 

The Engineer, ....... 124 

Fir Tree, . . . . . . • .127 

Jack Frost, 129 

Bohemia, 131 

Rain Drops, 133 

Plovers, . • 135 

Mousie, 137 

Crow, . . . 140 

Soft Maple, ........ 142 

Christmas-tree, . . . . . . . .145 

Thistledown^ 147 

Autumn, 151 

Wild Vine, 156 

Farmer Hawthorne, . . . . . . .159 

Epicure, 164 

The Muse, 168 

Moss, 172 

Head of the House, . . . . . .175 

The Flitting of the Flowers, . . . . 177 

The Bride, ........ 182 

Sir John Franklin, 183 

The Cat-Birds, 185 



6 CON2EN1S. 

PAGB 

The Soldier, ........ 187 

"It is Finished," 188 

My Bird, 189 

Late Violet, ........ 190 

Immortelle, ........ 192 

How Long, O Lord of Hosts, How Long? . 193 

Meadow Lily, ....... 196 

Thrushes, 197 

Roses, ......... 199 

String, ......... 201 

Flowers and Spring, ...... 203 

Partridge, ......... 206 

Death and Sleep, ....... 208 

Railway Train, . . . . . . . .210 

Good-bY; . 211 

Africa, . . .213 

Old Mortality, 216 

Chicadee, . . . . . . , . . 218 

Butterfly, 220 

The Churchyard, . . . . . . .222 

Six-penny Calico, ....... 224 

Bumble Bees, ........ 227 

Moravian Love Feast, ...... 230 

Separation, . 232 

Spring and Autumn Rain, ..... 234. 

Love and Fame, 238 



CONTENTS. 7 

PAGE 

Music and Song, . . . . . . . 240 

Falling Leaf, ........ 242 

The Dying Thief, ....... 244 

Snow Bird, . . . . • . . . . 246 

Idlers, ......... 248 

Puss, 251 

Psyche, 253 

Primrose, . . . . . . 255 

Isabel, ......... 257 

Night and Stars, . . . . . . .259 

My Heart, ........ 261 

GOOD-BY, 263 





THE PINE TREE. 




HE pine tree lives within a zone 
|l Known to its inner heart alone. 

Its roots strike down through damp and 
death. 
Its spire inhales a heavenly breath. 
The pine tree's roots have some way found 
Youth's fountain in the under ground. 
In Summer's heat, in Autumn's fire 
The pine tree lifts a changeless spire, 
And clouds of heaven stoop to drop 
A blessing on the pine tree's top. 
Borne high aloft the ether clear 
Becomes the pine tree's atmosphere. 
The pine I love grows from the mold 
Of an old churchyard green and cold; 
Pressed close around the pine tree sweet 
Wild roses grow and daisies meet. 

The grass doth clasp its roots so old, 
The oriole, his wings of gold, 



THE PINE TREE. 

Doth sometimes in the pine tree fold; 

And sometimes when the storm is drear, 

The sad owl finds a shelter here ; 

And all this tree, so 2:rand.to see, 

Is full of solemn mystery. 

How many a bird has hid its nest 

Securely in the pine tree's breast. 

By this old pine a mulberry 

Bears crimson berries on its tree, 

A challenore to all birds these be. 

A dogwood sometimes tries to grow, 

Between these trees to part the two. 

It sends a spangle of white flowers 

Scentless to meet the May day showers. 

The pine permits the bush to bloom, 

The mulberry will not give it room ; 

But seems to say come not between 

Me and my love, the evergreen. 

The pine I love through shade and shine, 

The strong, the stately pine is mine. 

Beneath the pine and mulberry 

Fell long ago an ancient tree ; 

So long the loveliest moss has grown 

Across, and through, and o'er, and spun 

A mantle thick through many a sun ; 

So that it seems a log no more 



THE PINE TREE. ii 

But a soft mound with runes writ o'er. 

'Tis pleasant there to sit alone, 

The place with shade is overgrown : 

The ground birds run through clover bloom 

They build their houses on a tomb 

Filled with blue violets' perfume. 

Forever there the pine tree sings, 

A mystic harp with myriad strings : 

It vibrates to the passing wings 

Of birds, and butterflies, and bees. 

It sings unlike to other trees, 

For even sad in Summer shine 

Seemeth the solemn churchyard pine ; 

The living voice of prophecy 

Appears to haunt the stately tree. 

This harp that Nature formed her own, 
Moulds air to take the undertone 
Of music sad and half Divine ; 
Of minor notes most sweet and fine. 
Shivering from off each pointed leaf, 
Drop songs whose rythms flow to grief. 
The heart of the old tree doth beat 
Alike through frost or Summer heat ; 
Winter himself doth sometimes set 
On the strong pine a coronet, 
And wraps it in a coverlet 



12 7HE PINE TREE. 

Of flake of frost, of snows and sleet, 

Beneath which Hving branches show, 

Green, fadeless, through the falling snow. 

And through which runs a tropic heat, 

That makes the youthful pulses beat. 

The strong brave pine tree chants its hymns 

While icicles hang from its limbs. 

So very strong, 'tis good to see. 

And think upon the churchyard tree. 

Still in heaven's fine expanse to keep 

The music of the upper deep. 

Intent the pine tree will not sleep. 

At every breeze its soul is thrilled, 

But yet the tempest only filled 

In its own mad and ruthless hour, 

The measure of the pine tree's power. 



BOUDOIR. 




STOLE into an empty room, 

Its owner was not there, 
But on a table, near the fire, 
A book of Common Prayer 
Was open, with a'mark upon 
A chapter of the good St. John. 



I stole into the empty room. 

And in a crystal vase 
A fair day-lily's soft perfume 

Filled all the room with grace. 
A pair of slippers near the tire 
Were broidered with a vine and lyre. 

I saw within the empty room 

A little knot of blue, 
A golden thimble and a thread 

And needle, and I knew 
It was some Christian woman's grace, 
That, lily-like, adorned the place. 



13 



ELM. 




r was very and very long ago, 
Before all the men and women you know 
Lived, or thought, or began to grow, 

This came to pass 

In a morass 
Full of silken or velvet grass, 
Lichens, and moss and pretty things ; 
A young-elm shook out two pale weak wings- 
One day in June, 

And very soon 
Went clambering up on its way to the moon ; 
For, being very and very proud, 
It said to itself, but not aloud : 

" I do not please 

With things like these — 
Mosses and grasses, things so small 
To stay ; an elm tree must grow tall, 
Up toward the sky and stars so high." 

The way this tree ; 

Ambitiously 
14 



■ELM. 15 

Shot up, was a goodly sight to see. 
It grew by day, it grew in the dark, 
A sapling tall with shaggy bark, 

Magnificently, 

As day by day 
And year by year slow rolled away, 
This elm filled her solitary place 
With a sovereign's dignity and grace. 

Could she have sung, 

When first she sprung 
To the life of a tree so proud and young — 
"The world shall hear of the elm tree's name, 
My way shall be up the path of Fame," 

She would have said — 

" I will raise my head 
Far from the place where the grass is spread, 
So proud, so high, that the golden star 
May rest on the boughs I will raise so far, 

And the blue sky 

Will be glad that I 
Ever sought her companionship so high." 
Yet growing a hundred years, no more 
Near to the sky she seemed than before. 

Then sighed the tree 

Quite wearily : 
" I have ever aspired and dwelt alone ; 
The sky so high, the stars that shone 



3 6 ELM. 

Belonged to a world that was not my own. 
I can never creep 
To that upper deep 
Where the cold, calm stars with light divine, 
Changeless in splendor, steadfastly shine, 
Untroubled by any vain hope of mine. 
I will go down 

Where the grass doth crown 
With a soft green web the lowly earth. 
Where a century since I had my birth." 
So the great tree crept with boughs that wept 
Down to the grass ; 
But alas ; alas ! 
The moss complained that, when it rained, 
The tree, so magnificent and grand, 
Kept the drops of Summer rain so bland 
From off its face. 
Flowers in their place, 
Dandelions, cowslips, every one, 
Complained that the tree kept off the sun. 
" Nothing loves me, sighed the old elm tree." 
Yet, birds did swarm 
To her heart so warm, 
And found there a refuge from the storm. 
And the elm had many friends who knew 
Her strength, her worth and her beauty, too. 



ELM. 17 

Mourn not to be 

Alone, great tree, 
Thy life is a goodly thing to see. 
And know thou this ; each star is alone, 
There is no mate for things like the sun ; 

And if men meet, 

For a moment sweet, 
To exchange their friendships and thoughts so high ; 
Yet soon they part and say, " Good-bye ! " 
To complete the human destiny — 

Alone, like thee, 

Thou stately tree, 
To live alone, and alone to die, 
Ever aspiring toward a sky , 

Infinitely far away and high. 





ORIOLES. 

^WHEN Northern orchards were in blow 
~4 With buds of pink and flowers of snow, 

Two Orioles came North to school, 
And built their dwellings by a rule 
Within an ancient elm of Yale. 
An arch of orange flashed each tail ; 

Under each winor 
• The whole lining 

Showed quite the same 
Resplendent hue of tawny flame. 
Vermilion, oranore on each breast. 
Their cradle swung from East to West, 
A pensile, warm and pretty nest. 
These birds were versed in all the lore 
Of birds that ever lived before ; 

Of oriole 
Wisdom and craft they new the whole. 
And yet, they came up North to see 
How Yale men teach Geometry. 

Along the shore 

Of Chesapeake, by Baltimore, 

i8 



ORIOLES. 19 

They sang their song a month before. 
Of all Euclid 
No line was hid, 
Of triangle or pyramid, 
From oriole sagacity. 
They had their problem in the eye, 

And hung it high 
Against a blue and sunny sky. 
They built of hemp, or flax, or tow, 
Woven and sewn all tighdy, so 
No rain nor any drop of dew 
An interstice might trickle through ; 
With horse hair long, 
And firm and strong, 
A nest all fair 
And graceful hanging in the air. 
Better, yes better far, than you 
To sew, the skillful orioles knew. 
The housewife's thread 
Or skein of silk, or yarn, to spread 
For the young orioles a bed, 

They sometimes stole ; 
But, on the whole, 
Did well for bird, or oriole 
That has not, as you know, a soul. 
And as the Summer term grew long, 
Five young ones sang their tuneful song, 



so ORIOLES. 

Whistled the same 
As the old orioles in their flame 
Colored and black reealia. 

And on the day 
That other schoolmen flocked away, 
The orioles took their Deofree 
As Bachelors and Maids to be 
Of Arts and of Geometry. 
For they were taught so very well ; 
It is a story strange to tell, 

Such a surprise ! 
The young ones all had hazel eyes, 

Had bright blue feet, 

And whistles sweet, 
Heads, throats and upper backs and wings 
Of black — the clever, cunning things— 

With all linings 
Vermilion deep and orange bright, 
Greater wing-coverts all in white. 
With other points of likeness, quite 
Too numerous for pen to write, 
And each could hang a nest in air, 
Pensile and swinging like a pear. 
How good they grew, 
Listening to 
Old Yale's respected chapel bell. 
Is known to all the students well. 



HOPE. 21 

They lost a witty class the day 
The senior orioles flew away 

On flame-hued wings, 

The cunning things 
Who wrought their problem out of strings. 
And hung their nests so very high 
Against the blue and Summer sky. 




HOPE. 

'" HIS is not all of thy darling, 

This lock of his hair, 
These soulless and shrunken garments 

The child used to wear ; 
Wings are abroad in the twilight 

Songs float out on the air ; 
Have faith to believe, though you see not, 

For spirit is finer than air. 

After life's summer is ended, 

The frost and the rain ; 
When all its sorrows are over, 

All ended its pain ; 
When all the sere leave.i are fallen, 

Their stems rent in twain ; 
Thine eyes at last shall be opened 

To see him asfain. 







HARVEST APPLE. 




HE sun was yellow, 
The heart of the harvest apple mellow, 
It grew atop of the tree by its fellow ; 

Its stem was a twin. 

And there shut in 
By a robin's nest and a dancing leaf 
Lived this apple, its life so brief. 

Its life from the spring 

Was a pleasant thing ; 
It was one of a bunch of flowers, 
Pink and white in the May-day hours, 

And it orrew to be 
A flame and a blush atop of the tree. 

Full of wine, 

One cheek did shine 
In gold that was very, very fine. 

While its other side 

Blushed like a bride ; • 

The Eastern chose 

Color of rose. 

But the apple's best 



22 



HARVEST APPLE. 23 

Cheek touched the West, 

Where wines grow sweet, 
And apples very good to eat. 

Now off the tree, 
In the sultry heat unconsciously, 

With thud so small 
It scarcely seemed like noise at all, 

Fell this summer fruit, 
Giving mother earth a faint salute. 

And earth as sweetly 

And as completely 

Answered the need 

Of the ripened seed 
As that high twin stem 
That held this fruit as a diadem. 




DAY-LILIES. 




E who love day-lilies, pray 
Gather of my flowers to-day. 
I am passing without sorrow, 
And I shall be gone to-morrow, 
I, the ephemeral flower, am dyings 
I am passing without sighing. 
Ye who love day-lilies, stay, 
Therefore, linger by the way 
To gather of my flowers to-day. 

"Who will gather me? 
Who doth love beauty ? 
Maiden young and fair, 
Wear me in your hair. 
Let me sparkle there, 
Like a heaven-descended star. 
I also am young and fair, 
I am dower'd with beauty rare ; 
Wear me on that breast, 
Never yet by care oppressed, 
Wear me and be blessed. 
24 



DA Y-LILIES. 25 

Let our lives' be blent, 
For we both are innocent. 

" Place me in your room, 
There amid its gloom 
I will yield a rich perfume, 
Sweeter than the garden's bloom, 
Sweet as tears upon a tomb, 
Sweet as sunlioht that doth fall 
In a dark day o'er the pall 
Of a passing funeral. 
For my life must be most sweet 
To make its briefness quite complete. 
Would you know my history ? 
I will tell it thee, 
I am like to thee. 
Like a phantom seen in dreams. 
Like the quick dissolved sunbeams. 
Dead or living none miss me. 
Death or life who knoweth half their mystery? 
Condensation of the dew. 
Yes, I am. like you ; 
For I come and I qo 
Like a spirit, so 
Silently men hardly know 
What a miracle of grace 
Sparkles bright on earth's worn face 
3 



26 EMBERS, 

For a moment in its place. 

Look on me and see, 

The embodiment of mortal history. 

" Learn of me to die. 

All earth's passing pageantry, 

Grandly floating- by — 

I let it pass without a sigh, 

Being assured that life's completeness 

Is bounded by a lily's sweetness, 

And that I gather of the whole 

Universe, in a flower's scroll. 

My Creator glorifying, 

The intense soul's passion sanctifying, 

I, the day-lily am, though dying." 



EMBKRS. 




^^HE tree that lived so lono- aoro 

Has fallen by the woodman's blow ; 
In mounds of gold the embers fall 
To-night, filling with light the hall. 

Over the ashes fairies tread, 
Bringing again to life the dead ; 



EMBERS. 27 

In Emberland now to and fro 
The groups of merry dancers go. 

But these are Indian girls and boys, 

And other days and other joys ; 

Now through the coal mounds grow and shine 

Great forests, ever green, of pine. 

The lake stirs to a birch bark's stroke, 
The chief his pipe of peace doth smoke ; 
Down by lone camp-fires in the night 
The silent squaws weave wampum bright, 

Or fashion dolls for Indian child. 
This love makes those stern features mild ; 
The mother-life is not complete 
Without dolls, cradles, kisses sweet. 

There, lurking in the coals, do see 
That angry panther glare at thee, 
And watch how softly o'er the moss 
The great bear steals the woods across. 

So burns the old pine-tree away 
In pictures of another day ; 
Two hundred years, in embers bright, 
Their history have told to-night. 



CRUCIFIKD. 




HE dead Christ slept upon the bier, 
^^1 Made ready for the sepulchre, 
^^ * Serene and fair — the suffering" day 
Had left no trace of agony, 
The sweat of blood was wiped away. 

Yet sorrowing Nature gave her sign 
And witness that He was divine ; 
The sun refused at noon to shine, 
And to this day so dark and long. 
The singing bird refused her song. 

And where blood issued from each wound^ 
What time the drops did touch the ground^ 
Earth felt their sacredness, and lo ! 
She quivered at each dying throe, 
And trembled as those drops fell low. 



A child, who had been blind, to see 

How fair the dead Christ's face might be, 

Pressed through the crowd : " Can Christ be dead. 



28 



CRUCIFIED. 29 

That loving, gentle Lamb who said, 
* Receive thy sight, be comforted ? ' 

^'I never in my life had seen 
A spear of grass, a leaf of green, 
'Till walking by the sea afar. 
Where other happier children were, 
He dawned upon my life its star, 

^' He laid his hand upon my head, 
' Receive thy sight, poor lad,' he said ; 
Ah, happy day when by the sea 
Of blue and lovely Galilee, 
Christ's pity healed a child like me." 

Also, to view his face was seen 

A carpenter, a Nazarine ; 

" We worked together, and the beam 

Christ touched, itself to lift did seem ; 

This is to me a dreadful dream. 

*^ Ah, wherefore did this cruel dart 
Transfix the gentle Master's heart, 
And wherefore is this kingly head 
Wounded by thorns that should instead 
With roses have been garlanded ?" 



3° 



CR UCI FIED . 

A smile set on her face of grief: 

The mother of the dying thief 

Came last, and o'er the Lord she shed 

Some bitter tears that comforted 

Those friends who sorrowed for the dead^ 

"I know it is a dismal day, 

But yet our shame is wiped away ; 

Dark shadows cover earth and skies, 

Graves open and the dead arise, 

Awe struck, since the world's Saviour dies. 

" Yet through the gloom does hope arise ! 

Christ said : ' To-day in Paradise,' 

And therefore shall I see my son. 

My beautiful, my only one — 

The honored and beloved among"." 



&• 



And straightway, then, each mourning friend. 

Doth the Lord's burial attend; 

They spread the linen o'er his hair. 

They thought to leave him lonesome there. 

But angels shone upon the air. 

And lilies by the garden walks. 

Leaned o'er and whispered on their stalks : 

What is it so doth thrill and stir 



CRUCIFIED. 3T 

Cedar of Lebanon and fir, 

The fig tree and the sycamore ? 

Still, in the garden angels walked, 

And with the lilies angels talked : 

" Wake us !" the waiting- flowers said, 

"For we can never be afraid 

When Christ comes forth in light arrayed."' 

The third day's early dawn did break. 
The young men did the flowers awake; 
The red rose sweet, ihe lily queen. 
And sad-eyed Magdalene was seen 
Walking amid the garden's green. 

But how that tomb's dark door He burst! 

Who saw the risen Saviour first 

Can never any one declare ! 

The empty grave clcthes folded were, 

And two young men were seated there. 




LOSS OR GAIN? 




STOOD beside an old-time grave, 
Made forty years and more ; 
The long stems of the willows wept 
Above a girl who long had slept. 
The grave was green and sprinkled o'er 
With posies blue and posies red 
That wove above her head 
A living, glowing diadem, 
A daisy-dotted coverlet, 
Impervious to sun or wet. 



In moss-grown letters quaint and old 
I read her name and age. 

She had died in that happy time 

That gray-beard age and poet's rhyme, 
And wisdom of the sage 

Proclaim to be the happiest : 

With youth and beauty at their best 
She had gone to her rest. 

The churchyard gate was half ajar, 

And village boys stole in 

To search for bird's nests in the fir, 
32 



LOSS OR GAIN? 33 

• 

The hazel and the sycamore 
That threw their sliadovvs over her, 

Who died so long- before. 
And little girls came timidly 
With eyes of blue forget-me-not 

Into this quiet spot, 
The fresh and new-blown flowers to see, 
And gather rosemary. 

An aged grandame, leaning on 
Her staff, came in at set of sun ; 
Where her old man was laid to sleep 
She looked with eyes that did not weep, 
And from his lowly place of rest 
She stooped to gather from his breast 

A late blown violet. 
To the carved lilies on the stone 
A lichen's clinging wings had grown, 
And the old dame unmoved of grief 

Her snowy handkerchief 

I Infolded carefully 

And wiped away the moss ; 
Then stepped the trim, neat walk across 
To chat with me of village lore 
And legends of the time before. 
She said the olden stories ran 
That this young ^irl had died of grief: 



34 LOSS OR GAIN? 

(Alas, the fickleness of man !) 
Her youth's bright dream was brief. 
The sadness of the younq girl's story 
Crowned all her grave with glory 
And helped to keep it green. 

"There is her lover false," the dame 

Cried, as an old man came 

In through the open gate. 

His hair was white as any snow, 

His feeble, trembling steps were slow. 

We smiled, we could not help it, so 
Astonishing it seemed, 
That maiden ever dreamed 

To leave on such a cheek as this 

The tenderness of a girl's kiss. 

What hast thou lost thou lovely girl ? 

Nothing that's worth a tear; 

Only the burden of long life, 
The winter of the year. 
What hast thou gained, thou lovely girl ? 

This — that each shininof curl 
Gleams in resplendent beauty yet, 
And cheeks of rose and eyes of jet 

Remain to memory. 
This — maiden that thou art to-day 



LOVE. 35 

No bride for this man, old and gray ; 
For thou hast walked in robes of white 
In gardens full of all delight 
For half a century. 



LOVE. 




SPIRIT, on a luckless day, 
Strayed out of heaven and lost the way. 



Nor could he find, forevermore, 
A glimmer of its shining shore. 

For sorne Saint Peter's hand did close 
Heaven's gates at night, as shuts a rose. 

Where many a giddy world went round, 
Circling in space, this child was found. 

Until at last each weary wing 

Drooped, tired with too much journeying- 

A lonely spirit of the air, 

With worlds about him everywhere. 

Earth's moon a silver crescent huno-, 
The new world seemed a jewel strung. 



36 • LO VE. 

Lately adown the starry space, 
A graceful vestal in her place. 

And now this lost child flew to see 

What this new moon and world might be. 

He found a land of pleasant sound, 
Singing with streams, with flowers crowned. 

Adorned with graceful mountain slope, 
Meadow and bird and antelope ; 

And spied the bower where Mother Eve 
For her sad loss did weep and grieve. 

Love stole into the woman's heart, 
Soothed the sad wound and eased its smart. 

Nestling on the first mother's breast 
The lost child found at last his rest. 






A.PRIL. 




? PRIL is a pettish 
:<.,XSv Maiden, and coquettish ; 

Trust thou not her sunny smile, 
She is cheating all the while. 
Yesterday a blue bird came 
With his wife, a pretty dame. 

Have you heard 

How each bird 
Was treated by the elfin thing ? 
Pretending it was warm, and Spring, 
She pelted them with such a snow, 
Such a rude and cruel blow, 
That they knew not where to go ; 
But on the grape vine stiff and numb 
Sat as we offered them a crumb. 

Looking so 

Very low 
In spirit, that you would have cried 
For the poor blue bird and his bride. 
Then this vixen coaxes up 
The cold crocus' little cup, 
Cheating her into believing 

37 



38 APRIL. 

That the whole wide world is grieving 
For the sight of cups of white, 
Yellow, blue — then changing quite, 
This elfin sprite 
Pelts crocus down 
With many a frown, 
And many a squall 
Of snow, till all 
The crocus' confidence in goodness 
Is quite destroyed by April's rudeness. 

She cheats trusting robin red 
Out of half his daily bread. 
Smiling on him sweetly now 
As he sits upon his bough 
Prospecting, as in a dream 
Baskinof in a warm sunbeam. 
Then she gives him such a shake 
That his feathers, all aquake. 
Make him look as large again 
As he ought ; this vixen then 
To the wildwood banishes 
Her victim, and he vanishes 

For twenty-four 

Hours or more. 

Should you think 

The birds would wink 



APRIL. 39 

At her conduct so coquettish ? 
Not a bird seems cross or pettish ; 
They think she has a dreary time 
To prepare our Northern chme 
For the warm and Summer day. 
Birds of russet, blue or gray 
Hopefully do sing and say, 

That this maiden, 

Flower laden, 
Struggles with the wintry gales 
Till her sweet wild rose-face pales ; 

That the sleet 

Her eyelids sweet 
Beats, and chills her snow-white feet, 
Tangling all her flowings locks ; 

That the Equinox 
Turns on hinges old and weary, 
That the day must be half dreary, 
Till the old world swing again 

Freely into silver rain, 

Sunbeams yellow, 

Sunset mellow. 
That April is a Purgatory, 

Through which, alas, 

The birds must pass 
To Summer Sun and Summer glory. 




QUAIL. 

^OUR note is very sad and sweet ; 
" More wheat, more wheat; " 
Then pritliee, quail, come forth and eat. 

For, pretty quail, divide we will 

Our treasures still 
With thee, and thou shalt eat thy fill. 

The hazel copse is thick and dark ; 

We often hark 
For thee and for thy friend the lark. 

And wonder where you do your nest. 

Small speckle-breast, 
Hide in the hedges where you rest. 

For if your hiding-place we knew 

We would help you 
With corn or wheat the season through 

You cannot trust us ? That is eood, 

For a bird should 

Suspect man when he haunts the wood. 
40 



CROCUS. 41 

For man hath often carried woe 

To birds, we know, 
'Tis this which makes you shun us so. 



CROCUS. 




-HY dress is cold, half fashioned of thin frost, 
Transparent, odorless, of little cost, 
Yet we should sorrow for thy beauty lost. 

Thy little breath is tender and refined 
As if a bank of flowers had sweetened a North wind, 
And round about thy heart some streaks of gold 
are lined. 

Thou didst incorporate the warmth that fell 

From sun and star into thy tiny bell. 

Thy gold lines do the tales of Spring-warmth tell. 

Hardly for use, not fit for ornament. 

The half transparent covering of thy tent ; 

Yet in it confidence and trusting hopes are blent. 




«S"^ 



BABY GRAY. 




^ITE-WINGED anorels seem to hover 
Underneath the tiny cover 
Of the basket-cradle where 
Baby slept, milk-white and fair. 

John and Betty laid their heads together, 

One was bright and one was brown, 

In deep consultation whether 

They would raise him in the town. 

" Children ought to grow," said pretty, 

Generous and loving Betty. 

" With the flowers and with the trees. 

With the birds and with the bees, 

And the butterflies, 

Under open skies ; 
Baby shall not grow up in the town, 
Where the smoke falls down 

On a rainy day." 

Spoke up Betty Gray. 

Then John Gray did say : 

'* I will raise this boy of mine 
42 



BABY GRAY. 43 

Where the sun can shine. 
Where the child may watch all day 
Birds or squirrels at their play ; 
On a farm where wheat will grow ; 
I will teach my boy to know 
All the treasures of the field, 
AH the fruits the forests yield." 

^' There must be a great tree's shade, 
Where timid fawns have played, 

Where my boy may play 

All the Summer day ; 
And a gentle rivulet 
On whose bank the child may sit 
And see his face in it." 

Answered pretty, 

Loving Betty. 

So they did up baby Gray, 
On an early April day, 
In his worsted comforter, 
- In his cloak all trimmed with fur, 
In his pretty scarlet hood. 

Warm and good ; 
Bright red mittens on his fingers. 

Bright red stockings on his toes ; 

Baby's face was like a rose, 



44 



BABY GR AY. 

Where the loving sunset lingers. 
Betty pressed the baby to her 
Breast of snow, and off they started,^ 

Iron-hearted, 

For the far frontiers, 
To make a farm where baby Gray 
Might live his infant years. 

Both a woolen and a flax wheel 
With a pair of cards and reel 

Took our pretty, 

Busy Betty, 
And the sacred seeds of flax. 
John Gray took his good steel axe^ 
Two strong oxen and a cow, 
For sweet and rosy baby Gray, 

Fat and cheerful now, 

Spirited away 
To a strange existence, 
Was not doomed to pine away- 
Lacking his subsistence. 

Like a giant John Gray smote the trees 
With an axe whose blows resounded 
Far and near ; soon his little farm was bounded 
With a zigzag fence of rails, 



B A BY G RAY. 45 

John and Betty fed on quails 
Like the Israelites. 

Their log cabin was all builded 

In a day and night, 
And no house whose walls are gilded 

Could be fairer, in their sight. 

There's no telling 
How this little wild wood dwelling 

Looked to pretty 

Hopeful Betty. 
Happy were their nights 
When the birch fires burned so bright 
That the cabin was alight 
Like a palace ; and the glory 
And the hero of our story, 

Litde baby Gray, 

Slept the night away. 
In the corner purred two kittens ; 
Betty knit her socks or mittens ; 
John Gray, adding to their riches, 
Whitded tables, chairs and dishes. 

As the years flew, John and pretty, 

Busy Betty, 

Reaped their harvest. 
All they did was blest. 



46 HUMMING-BIRD. 

Jesse Gray grew up the best, 
Of all boys the handsomest ; 
Strong and cheerful, good and healthy. 
Temperate, virtuous and wealthy; 
For their home within the wildwood 
Gave to baby Gray a childhood 
True and pure ; and blessed Betty 
Still with silver hair was pretty. 



HUMMING-BIRD. 




HUMMING-BIRD had whirled all day 
In a delicious ecstacy, 

For all his way 
Was overflowing with perfume 
And honey ran along the bloom. 

So, drinking of earth's sweetest things. 
The bird had all day flashed his wings. 

Intoxicate 
With all he drank, with all he ate, 
Was humming-bird, now it was late, 

And, by the newly rising moon, 
His wings still beat to rhythmic tune^ 
He flew alone — 



H UMMIN G-B IRD . 

His way was toward that torrid zone 
Where grew the sheen in which he shone. 

Somewhere between'the East and West 
This flashinar'^emerald possessed 

A Htde nest, 
So small no traveler could see 
Where this wee home of love mioht be. 

Now birdie spied along his way 
A young girl fresh as June or May, 

And with his beak 
He kissed the maiden on her cheek, 
And had he owned the power to speak 

Most likely birdie would have said : 
" Of all the blossoms, white or red, 

That nod and blink, 
Of lilies, columbines, or pink. 
You are the sweetest flower, I think." 



47 




GRANDADDY-LONG-LKGS. 




'^wRANDADDY-Long-Legs loves the ground; 
Y^,^' He is a dot 

Of breathing body, small and round ; 

A tiny spot, 
With eight legs, or it may be ten. 

As fine as hairs, 
And this is all, in wood or fen, 
He ever wears. 

When down he goes the world to see, 

And town below. 
Out of the fragrant fernery, 

To see him o-o 
The little lonor leas and his dame 

Cluster about : 
"Grandad don't tell the boys your name 

While you are out." 

Because they seize and often break 

His fine limbs thin ; 

"Tell me which way my^cows do take ?" 

'Tis a boy's whim — 
48 



GRAND ADDY-LONG-LEGS. 49 

As if grandaddy-long-legs knew 

Which way the cows 
Do take, or for that matter, too. 

Cares where they browse. 

And when in dire affright he points 

His les somewhere, 
With anguish in each aching joint, 

The boys declare 
Tlie spirit of the prophet old 

Informs his mind ; 
They go the way that he has told 

1 he cows to find. 

When wounded, home he slowly goes, 

The kindly toads. 
With spectacles across the nose, 

At the cross roads 
Meet him and with a great concern, 

Escort him home. 
Where from a spider wise they learn, 

Their surgeon gnome, 

That he must surely have a new 

Leg moonbeam spun ; 
The broken one will never do. 

They spin him one, 
And hane it on a hazel bush 



50 GRAN DADDY-LONG-LEGS. 

That It may dry, 
Watched over by a brooding thrush 
That lives near by. 

Grandmotherly the toads do sit 

And recommend 
Some syrup that he should try it ; 

The newts do send 
Some soothing tinctures of the fern 

Or sassafras ; 
The glow worms burn their lamps for him 

And yet, alas, 

Though all the neighbors are so kind 

The time seems longr ; 
And he no more a joy does find 

In cricket's song. 
They sing to him the whole night long 

To soothe his pain, 
But never more shall he g^row strongr 

Or brisk again. 





VIOLIN. 




HERE are signs of a storm, 
But the homestead is warm ; 
Though its weather-stained front has been 
builded so lona 
And beaten back tempest and cold, it is strong. 
It standeth alone, 
All moss overgrown ; 
Moss is compassionate even to stone. 
In summer the homestead is folded in song ; 
The glad swallow weaves 
Her nest under the eaves. 
And up in the branches of apple trees high. 
That touch with their blush the blue of the sky, 
Cat-bird or tomtit 
With Baltimore orioles flit, 

'Tis a festival day ; 

We will dance and be gay. 
Somebody is come that we did not invite, 
He prayeth for shelter and food for to-night : 
Only a man with an old violin ; 

5' 



52 VIOLIN. 

Let him come in ! yes, let him come in ! 

Don't make him wait, 

But open the gate. 

The fire is abloom 

In the old-fashioned room. 
Gilding the mirrors, gilding the halls, 
Gilding the pictures, warming the walls ; 
Cedar and oak, with torches of pine. 
Give their aroma subtile and fine ; 

How the flames shine ! 

There is plenty to eat, honey or meat, 
Loaves of fine wheat. 

Ale or metheglin, cider or wine. 

We will warm him with shine 
Of billows of fire, 
That rush like a spire 
Or like spirits afloat 
Up the wide chimney's throat. 

He is weary and hungry ; let him come in, 

With the old violin. 
Some are so warm, while others are cold ; 

Some men have gold, 
While others are starving ; give him a share 

Of holiday fare. 

How shall we say 



VIOL IN . 55 

Grace to the feast of this festival day 

If we send him away ? 
Old-fashioned doughnuts, nice pumpkin pies, • 

With a turkey that lies 

Complacently done, 
Ready and brown for this feast of the sun ; 
Jellies as sweet as nectarines turned 
Ripe while the ashes of August were burned ,*: 

Feed him on these. 

With honey of bees. 

Oh ; he is cold, 

Trembling and old, 
And the white hand that carries the poor violin; 

Is shrunken and thin. 
Time restores nothing of all we have lost; 
The hair of the singer is whiter than frost. 

His grace he has said : 
He only eateth the crust of the bread, 
Nor toucheth the apples, the gold or the red ; 

Nor tastes of the wine, 

Where through crystals so fine 
It, as the heart of the summer, doth shine ; 

Neither doth eat 

He honey or meat ; 
' He needeth them not — 
He is not half so poor as we thought. 



54 VIOLIN. 

After supper he tuneth each string 
Of the worn vioHn, 
And now he will sing. 

Hauntlngly sweet 

As a wood violet 
Late In October by all the winds tossed, 
Faded and wan from the breath of the frost, 

There sobbed from each string. 

Lamenting, complaining, 
Stories of daisies, stories of spring, 
Fountain or forest emerald grreen, 
Buttercups, butterflies, fireflies with sheen 
Of a lantern tucked under a wing of shagreen ; 
A roaring of waves, a ship's heavy boom, 

Long time the wind's sport, 
Resting at last, at last reaching port. 
Of a miller and mill, a wheel and a flume ; 

Of popples' perfume, 
And day lilies that faint by a tomb. 
And lastly, and saddest and sweetest of all, 
Of a darkened hall with Its funeral ; 

Of willows that wave 

Over a grave, 
And of love that, not being able to die, 

Was transplanted to high 
Gardens abloom In the heart of the sky. 



VIOLIN. 

As if in a trance, 

The dancers did dance, 

Each foot keeping time 

To the vioHn's rhyme. 

As their revels they keep, 

He is fallen asleep, 
And the billows of fire like a mantle enfold 

The' minstrel in eold ; 
Gildinor each strino- of the sad violin 
And the frost of the silver hair, faded and thin. 

In quadrille to and fro 

The gay dancers go ; 
Outside beginneth the north wind to blow, 
Softly descend the cold feathers of snow ; 
Still he is sleeping, lost in repose, 
Yet under his hand, like the wind to the rose, 

Thrilleth each string 

Of the fine violin. 

Awake him from slumber, the night goeth fast, 

The dancing is past. 
The candles are flickering down to the last ; 
It is cold, it is freezing, the winds blow a blast. 

The sycamore shrieketh, 

The old casement creaketh, 

And every old post 



55 



56 VIOLIN. 

Of the fence is snow-capped like a ghost; 
Yet still in the mazes of sleep he is lost 

In the trance of a dream. 
Awake him ! now fadeth the fire's golden gleam. 
He will not awake from his slumbrous repose, 
And quivereth not like the wind to the rose 

The old violin 
Under the master's hand, shrunken" and thin. 
Awake him ! We cannot, for he hath forgot 
Pain and privation — they trouble him not, 
And never again, ah, never again, 

Shall the heart of the viol 

Tell tales of sad trial 

Or sob a refrain 
Of sadness or sorrow, hunger or pain, 

Of sunshine or rain. 

He has drifted away 

On this festival day 
To the land that they tell us in sermon or song 
Shall rectify all earth's sorrow and wrong. 

Grief lasteth a night ; 
Joy comes in the morning, heaven crowned and 
bright — 

Sinp-er, o^ood nio^ht ! 
Give him a shroud and give him a grave ; 
He belongeth to One who is mighty to save. 



MARCH. 57 

Let the winds rave ; 
Let him only have, 
In his pale hands so thin, 
That violet faded — the sad violin. 

His grave lieth damp 

With a star for its lamp ; 
The snow falleth over it for a cover. 
Shall walk by it never mother or lover. 

By the light of the moon 
Perhaps the sad viol is chanting a tune : 

As the liftinor of wings 

Flies the spirit that sings ; 
Escaped as a captive from prison and thong, 
He has flown like a swan to the ocean of song. 



MARCH. 




T is the sighing, sobbing time 

Of mingled sleet and rain and rime, 
Tossing- his hair, out from his lair 
The wild, the blustering son of Mars, 
March, cometh calling on his stars. 
His buckler and his shield always 
The golden ram of Aries. 
The sun Is down towards Capricorn, 
5 



58 MARCH. 

But must be back by May-day morn, 

March wishes he had not been born 

The blusterer of all the year, 

Driven by hurricane or tear ; 

He calls the winds from East or West, 

Of South and North, and smites his breast^, 

For 'tis his giant hand must turn 

The vernal Equinox, and burn 

Pale ghost lights for the violet's urn. 

The snows from off the ice-o-irt shore 

Of Greenland or of Labrador 

Do smite this giant in the face. 

But still he keeps his southward pace,. 

And calling on all feathered flocks. 

Defiant of an earthquake's shocks, 

He gently turns the Equinox; 

Upon its golden hinge it swings. 

And, lo, there comes a rush of wings^ 



MIGNON. 




f HIS is the maiden the Ocean would have, 
Earth shall not keep her nor hold her grave ; 
Earth is too cold for lips of roses and hair 
of gold 
And the child shall descend to that inner fold — 
To the palace of pearl where the sea gods hold^ 
In shimmering caskets that no man hath seen, 
Their treasure of crystal and ultramarine. 

The wild winds did hear what the mermaidens say. 
And drove them out from the slumberous bay; 
They drove them away to the deep blue sea. 
That Mignon might gather her shells and be free, 
Upon the white beach of the Ocean to play. 

But soon as the zephyr or East wind did rest. 
Back came the sea nymphs upborne on the crest 
Of billows, with jewels of pearl on each breast. 
They followed the child as she walked on the sand ; 
They gathered in bays where the sea touched the 
land ; 

59 



6o MIGNON. 

They sano^ to the child and their voices were wild : 
This is the maiden the Ocean would have, 
This is the maiden the Ocean would save. 

They follow the child as onward she goes, 

With hair Hke the sunshine and lips Hke a rose, 

And thus to the gray father Neptune they say, 

We shall bring thee a beautiful maiden some day. 

And to her they talk as they foUow her walk: 

'Jhere's a palace of sleep 'neath the waves of the deep, 

So still and so quiet a feather stirs not ; 

As still as the grave — we know well the spot. 

Its walls are as clear as the dew of a tear, 

Its windows are pearl ; come beautiful girl, 

You shall be one of the nymphs of the sea ; 

You shall dance as dance we, as wild and as free. 

Look at the pearls that we coil in our hair, 

Our fair yellow hair, such thou shalt wear. 

The paths of old Ocean are planted with shells, 

There hold we our revels 

And thou mayest see 
The splendid, the beautiful queen of the sea, 
Who sitteth alone on her opaline throne, 
Her robes are with rarest gems bestrown ; 
We gathered them up where sunbeams have shown, 
Along the wild beach where the tempests moan, 
And Ocean doth strive for her own. 



MIGNON. 6i 

Coiled near to the throne the great sea serpent lies, 
His wings are aflame with the rainbow's dyes, 

And his glittering eyes 
Outshine the golden stars of the skies ; 

Come with us and see 
How lovely the emerald serpent may be ; 
And come thou and sit where gold fishes flit, 
Like winofed Aurora makinof the nicrht 
Of deepest mid-ocean beautiful bright, 
With lights of purple and violet. 

Come with us, Mignon, 

Fair flower of the sun, 
From pole to pole we are free to roam^ 
Wherever we wiU we may chose our home ; 
In the north by icebergs frozen and lone. 
Or down at the heart of the tropical zone. 

We sit in a shade 
Of vaulted pearl as our hair we braid, 
And all the toilets of Uncine are made 
With gems of the earth around us laid ; 
For when the whirlwinds did beat the main, 
The wealth of the ships fell down like rain ; 
Here they lie and their treasures bestrew 
The ways of the deep wherever we go. 
Of all the earth did lose, we choose, we choose ; 
And there as fair and young as you are. 
Lie maidens with arms and shoulders bare. 



62 MI GN O N. 

And links of hair of gold, or raven or brown are there, 
Our beds are laid in halls with lovely lazuli paved, 
Where never a tempest in madness hath raved, 

They sang so long their strange wild song 

That she stretched her hands to the mermaidens fair ; 

They reached her braided pearls for her hair. 

And a new throng sprung from the waves and sung, 

This is the maiden the Ocean would have, 

This is the child the sea would save. 

She left her hat on the sands one day 

By the seaside gray. 
She followed the dancing mermaidens gay 

O'er the billows away. 
And she never came back from these far pearl cells, 
In the light of the day to gather shells. 
Down with the emerald serpent she dwells : 
She hath become a wraith of the sea in her young 
beauty, 

And above her trails 
The emerald serpent with golden scales. 

But the wind that wails 
And the tempest that shrieks when earth travails. 
She heareth them not, so still is the spot — 
So quiet, so still, that never a rose 
Would thrill or stir in the deep repose. 



THE LARKS. 

And slowly around her all unseen, 

The nymphs build mansions of ultramarine. 

And her hair is still of a paly gold, 

And the arms of Undine about her fold ; 

And the treasures of earth do fall and sift, 

Slow gathering o'er her in many a rift, 

Till she shall be lost in Time's oolden drift. 



THK L-A.RKS. 




^¥% 



r^ITH gray head uncovered, the sexton did wait 
IM, By the elm tree that shaded the churchyard 
gate 
For the cavalcade passing in sombre state. 

Down the avenue, silent and green and wide, 
Two rows of tall trees stood on either side, 
And in them each lark had a home for his bride. 



Roses Pfrew there, one tall one orrew over 

A larch, and I saw the nest of a plover 

With four speckled eggs hid in the red clover. 

A white virgin's bower went rioting through 
A cypress, it said, " let me borrow from you 
Your stem and your strong boughs to lean on, pray 
do." 



64 THE LARKS. 

The cypress made answer, " Thou pretty white vine^ 
Climb up to the day till you see the sun shine ; 
So thy life shall lighten the darkness of mine." 

It was not my time to weep then, for the bride 
Was unknown, I knew not her name who had died,. 
So I noticed the roses nod on each side. 

And I saw the sunlight stream out of the West; 
It gilded the birds' wings, it gilded the crest 
Of lily-white blossoms upon the bride's breast. 

All was peaceful and bright ; the old birds caressed 
The young ones, who peeped o'er the rim of each 

nest 
To see how the bride in her lilies was dressed. 

And a home-flying lark sang : " To live and to love 
And to die;" this is all: the elm tree above 
Our heads stirred with his housekeeping mate, wha 
sighed " Love."' 




ROBIN. 

^HO told thee that the roots are stirred 
Beneath the mold, thou merry bird ? 
Who is thy ruler, who thy guide, 
Who taught thy warble to divide 

The changeful days that roll between 
The days of snow and days of green ? 
How knowest thou that soon the tinge 
Of green will touch the alder fringe ? 

Hast thou the wisdom to discern 
How the soft maples redder turn. 
And how there creeps the softest gold 
Around the willow branches old? 

Knowest thou as the days grow long 
The woods will thrill with trill and song ? 
When the sleet beats pale April's face, 
Canst thou bend to the storm with grace ? 

Knowing there is a friend above 
Who thinks of all the birds with love ? 
Who always will find daily bread 
For blithesome happy rob'n red ? 

6S 



66 ROBIN. 

Rob, thou hast trials ; wise men say 

You never, never, go away. 

But pretty bird, it is not so, 

Your paths the wise men do not know. 

You stretch you wings, away from snow, 
Spring's winged Page you come and go. 
Then, selfish men and sordid, quite, 
Hint at the robin's appetite ! 

Fed by the Lord's most generous hand, 
Poor Rob can never understand 
Man's strange, mysterious, narrow ways, 
His gardens and his boundaries ; 

And so, the reddest cherries, sweet, 
The robin red doth choose to eat. 
For, fed by the same Friend divine, 
Rob's right is quite the same as thine. 

His title deeds stretch from the pole 
To where the tropic waters roll. 
And East and West, or far or wide, 
Rob might show his estates with pride. 

Bright robin red, all incomplete 
Were Spring without thy warble sweet ; 
Welcome, thou guest of sunny wing, — 
Attendant of the pleasant Spring. 



DAFFODIL. 




ALE and still daffodil, 

In your lustrous satan frill, 
In your amber garments chill. 
Changing slowly from a haze 
Golden to a saffron blaze — 
Foremost of the flowery race, 
Gracefully you fill your place. 
Spirit of the early time, 
Early in the seasons' rhyme. 
Gentle, shining daffodil, 
April's fragantlips distil 
Dews too cold, that only chill. 
Linger for a genial day. 
For the rosy month of May. 
Welcome, welcome, flowers of gold, 
Though you be so chill and cold, 
Ye are like the nims who wait 
Early by the chapel gate 
For the opening of the fete. 
Delicate, ethereal, fine 



67 



68 DAFFODIL. 

As a vestal by a shrine, 

So is every flower of thine." 

"Thou hast called me pale and still 
In my satin garment chill, 
Fashioned for a daffodil. 
So am I, for April day 
Only fashioned, not for May. 
I adorn the olden age. 
Blooming on an earlier page 
In the history of flowers, 
Representative of showers. 
Cloudy days and changeful hours^ 
And of dew as crisp and chill 
As the leaves of daffodil, 
Nurtured half of sun and snows. 
I have never seen a rose, 
Glorious spouse of Summer time,. 
For I touch the Winter's rime. 
And the year expects me here 
In my season to appear. 
Can you love me cold and still, 
Can you love the daffodil ?" 
Starlike after Winter's gloom, 
Peeping forth as from a tomb. 
Sometimes has my heart confessed 
That I love thy flowers best. 



GOLDFINCHES. 69 

Earlier than all the rest. 
By and by as days grow warm, 
Many a graceful flowery form 
Will appear in woodland dim, 
Or within the garden trim 
Herald of the flowery dawn — 
Daffodil you will be gone. 
Mid the bloom of violet, 
Lily, rose or mignonette. 
Thee I never will forget. 
You are like the babe that died, 
Blooming by the mother's side — 
Daughters, sons about her grown, 
Thinks she of that little one, 
Telling o'er the winsome ways 
Of that babe of other days. 



GOLDFINCHKS. 




OW, all along each meadow way, 
In stripes of red wild roses, 
Did swing their goblets of perfume. 
And daisies by the way did bloom, 
And buttercups and posies. 



70 GOLDFINCHES. 

'Tis a good day to build my nest, 

Sang" goldfinch in his yellow vest — 

It was of satin, and his best — 

He wore a little golden crest. 

His wings were black — a bird so fine 

Scarce floats in paths of sun and shine. 

He reared a tiny thatch of hair, 

Enclosed around with fields of air ; 

He hung it on a haw-bush fair, 

Without a compass or a square ; 

He hunCT it on a bit of stick, 

Where white haw-flowers were very thick. 

His little mate was round and soft 
As thistle down that floats aloft ; 
On weekdays as on Sundays dressed. 
How neat she helped to form the nest — 
She moulded it to her soft breast. 

It was a pretty sight to see 
These lovers on the hawthorn tree ; 
She sat within the nest in state, 
While by her sang her little mate. 

One fine green leaf above them swung, 
It made a roof to shade their young, 
And lyre-like there each tuneful tongue 



WREN'S NEST. jr 

Sang throug-h the days of summer heat, 
Till travelers stopped the birds to greet,. 
Their singing was so clear and sweet. 

And when the summer rose was dead,. 

On wings away the singers fled, 

Nor waited they the dying year 

To see laid dead upon her bier. 

Not till the grain was in the shock 

Tarried the goldfinch with his flock, 

But swift as golden arrows flew 

These birds that on the sunshine grew — 

Away from snow, away from frost, 

We watched them till their forms were lost^ 

And longed to follow in their wake, 

That journey with the sun to take. 



Vv^REN'S NEST. 




ANSION built without a hand, 
And without an inch of land. 
Ravelings and thread and string. 

Bits of fleecy, woolen yarn, 
We will give you, little wren, 

For your house or barn. 



72 fJ REiY' S NEST. 

No, you shall not have the blue 
Birdie's box — 'tis not for you. 

Such a shirk, 

Not to work ! 
You are not in Paradise, 
Where bird's nests grow ready-made. 

In a trice 
Your foundation may be laid ; 
We will come to your raising 

So amaziuCT ! 

Try again, with thread and leaf; 
No baby wren will come to grief. 
Tie a leaf and pin a stem 
In this fir clump, where baby wren 
Has whimpered time and time again. 

Try again, 

Houseless wren ! 




ROSE AND BRIER. 



" Out of her bosom there grew a red rose, 
And out of Lord Level's a brier." 




f HEY were lovers once, but were parted long 



Ere Time brought them together ; 
They met at last in a time of song, 
When the birds sang well in the warm days long 
And nights of the sweet June weather. 

But the maid stirred not in the couch where she lay, 

In budding, fresh June weather ; 
And the lover no word to the maiden did say, 
Through the star-crowned night or the summer day, 

When the years brought them together. 

And the grass o'er her breast with harebells blue 

Nodded not unto her lover, 
And not a red rose any redder grew, 
As they parted the earth to make room for two 

Under earth — man's last soft cover. 

6 73 



74 ROSE AND BRIER. 

He had been false to the maiden, they said; 

She died in youth's fair weather; 
He lived till the snow was white on his head ; 
What did it matter, the lovers were dead, 

When Time brought them together. 

But out of her bosom a red rose grew, 

And out of her lover's a brier; 
The rose touched the brier, and it to her threw^ 
A tendril — they clasped and together they grew, 

As if striving which should grow higher. 

The brier leaned over to warm by the rose, 

Her blossoms were goblets of fire, 
But the spray of the brier was cold as the snow 
That high and afar on the mountain doth glow, 

Unimpassioned by any desire. 

A nightingale built in this thicket of love. 

In Summer, a nest for her young ; 
And she sang to the stars as they glittered above ; 
She sang, and the sorrowing song of a dove 

In liquid notes dropped from her tongue. 

She sang to complain that the life of the rose 

Its passion and fervor did waste ; 
She wept that the blossom of fire did enclose 



THE JUDGE'S PIGEONS. 75 

The briar insensate and cold as the snows, 
That its ice and its thorns she embraced. 

But loving and clasping the blossoms of fire, 

Exuberant gave of her love, 
And close to her heart did she clasp the cold brier, 
And she clung to its thorns as if both should aspire 

Towards the stars that were shining above. 



THE JUDGE'S PIGEONS. 




ITtllN the shadows of the law 

Two pigeons had their home and grew 
To build their nest without a flaw. 
Of tide deeds the pigeons knew. 
For, with so much red tape in sight, 
Followed in legal sequence quite. 
The birds were learned and erudite. 
On a stone niche their small house stood, 
And as their title was so good 
'Gainst wind and weather, fire and flood, 
At home within their small abode 
From Term to Term the birds were found ; 
And knew the sound of Court House bell, 
Each County Court and Circuit well ; 
And knew a lawyer by his face. 



76 THE JUDGE'S PIGEONS. 

His guileless ways and courtly grace. 

Some gleams of brightness seemed to flow^ 
Some cheer from sunny wing and breast, 

To light the dull gray courts below, 
Upon the stark dead law to rest — 
O'er Parchments mouldy, dust-stained, old, 
O'er Contracts, Lease or Mortgage fold, 
Traced long ago by hands now cold. 

The dreariest, the roughest way 
Will have its litde gleam of light. 

Still, through the gray autumnal day, 
Will flash some wing all sunny bright; 

Soft moss will to the cold rock cling ; 

Sweet buds will grow and bird's will sing; 

In Winter's snow will bloom the Spring. 




THE PARTRIDGE'S NEST, 




'-^ 



'^{^HEN the partridge nest she spied 



'fiM^ In the wood, young Betty cried : 
" I have found your nest of grass 
By the budding sassafras ; 
From your nest so full of young, 
Pretty partridge, spare me one. 



"Surely, you will never misa 
Her at all — then give me this ; 
She is like a yellow ball, 
All of down so soft and small ; 
Mother partridge, shy and wild. 
Tell me how to rear your child ?" 



As in her affright she fled, 
This is what the partridge said : 
■"Wherefore came you to the wood, 
Where your presence bodes no good, 
Wanting all that you can spy 
Of its treasures, low or high? 

77 



78 THE P ARTRID G E' S NEST^ 

" Well you know we only find 
Safety far from human kind ; 
Pinching famine very sore 
Will not bring us to your door ! 
Naughty girl, did I intrude 
In your presence with my brood ? 

" What hast thou to give my chick 
Better than this coppice thick, 
Where the spice bush lifts her top- 
Till the hemlock bids her stop. 
And the two their leaves entwine, 
Yielding each a fragrance fine ? 

" Hast thou carpets soft as moss, 
Spread this wilderness across ? 
Knowest thou the spring that fills 
All the crystal mountain rills, 
Where I go at dawn to drink 
With the roses round the brink ? 

" Hast thou seen the mountain deer 
Bounding in her freedom here ; 
Knowest thou how very good 
Is this temple in the wood ? 

" You intend my chick to steal, 
Listen then as I reveal 



THE PARTRIDGE' S NEST. 79 

Something of the wild-bird's lore ; 
Con my precepts o'er and o'er ; 
Feed my chicken buds of birch 
Take her not into a church, 

" Beech nuts, tender sprouts of grass. 
Feed my chick, thou naughty lass ; 
Let her taste the wintergreen ; 
It is fit for any queen, 
And its crimson berries red 
Grow to yield us daily bread. 

" Never teach my chick to say 
Grace — the partridge does not pray ; 
That is what such girls as you, 
Romping, naughty, ought to do. 

" Of the elderberry fine 
She may drink the purple wine ; 
Temperance you must not speak 
Of to her — she is not weak ; 
When she has enough to eat 
Nothing tempts her, sour or sweet. 

" Not at all will she object 

To a wild plum purple specked ; 

And bearberries also, she, 



So THE PARTRIDGE'S NES2. 

To dine on, is very free ; 
Whortleberries, too, are food 
For my chicken, very good. 

"All the pigeon berries sour 
They are of the wild-bird's dower; 
Chide her not if she should go 
Where the ferns and roses grow. 

" On her heart the wilderness 
Ever shall itself impress ; 
Visions deep of solitude 
In her memory shall brood ; 
Therefore shall she be possessed 
Of a spirit of unrest. 

"She must wear a speckled dress, 
Sober as a hermitess. 
Teach her foot so light to fall 
That it make no noise at all ; 
Teach her cunning, wisdom, stealth, 
These are needful to her health ; 
So that when a fox goes by 
She shall be as still as I. 

"Tell me, foolish little miss, 
Can you teach my chicken this ? 



THE NORTHERN LIGHT, Sr 

Are you able ? Then will she 
Surely come again to me, 
Turning from captivity 
To her wildwood mansion free." 



THE NORTHERN LIGHT 




H, the lancers, 

The wild dancers ; 
Aurora borealis 
With heaven for a palace. 
They dance along the night 
Amid the sons of light, 
In an ecstacy of mad delight, 
As if from out an armory. 

All clad in light they come, 
Some clothed in red there be, 
With emerald lustres some. 

All corruscate and shiver, 
As a gleaming, shining river, 
The wavering lances quiver, 
As streaming with a mad ambition 
To touch Aldebaran's throne, 



S3 THE NORTHERN LIGH7\ 

Or as joined in one volition, 
To reach the north star lone. 

Now gleams upon each lance's tip 
Scarlet, ruddy as the lip 
Of Aphrodite when she rose 
From out the sea foam's snows. 
Those lances must have dipped,^ 

Amid the crimson gloom 
Of endless fields of poppies. 

In the realms of night abloom. 

And now they seem to fade, 

In many a fitful shade, 

Now come they forth arrayed 

More grandly than before 

Burnished and gilded o'er. 

Like golden pinions of the butterflies^ 

Of ardent summer kissed, 
And in precious colors of carbuncle^ 

Opal, pearl or amethyst. 

Red, redder than a rose 
Its shadow each one throws 
Above the Arctic snows, 
Where, with his hardy reindeer,. 
All buried deep in fur ; 



THE NORTHERN LIGHT. 3$ 

Like an exaltation of the winter 
Roams the Laplander. 

To be a star or sun, 

Like diamonds that clasp on 

The girdle of Orion, 

This is the mad ambition. 

This the feverish unrest, 

With which this dancing army 

Of midnight seems possessed. 

Efflorescence of the sky 
Bloom where no one passeth by^ 
Effervescence of the elements, 
Like the wandering Arab's tent^ 
Vanishing when night is spent. 




SPIDER. 




Traveler through earth and air, 

Tireless Httle wanderer. 

Beauty's dream and beauty's dower 
Drive thee on through sun and shower; 
Thy fiery soul impels thee through 
The sunset's gold, the morning's blue, 
To spread the treasure of thy loom 
Wheresoever there is room ; 
In the thicket's dewy bloom 
Where the sweetest honeys stream 
From the lilies, full of cream 
That overflow 
In the glow 
Of June, and all their sweetness 
Spill, to make the year's completeness. 
A spinner in her coat of mail, 
Noiseless and invincible. 
Watchful, ever on the trail 
Over beds of asphodel. 
Past the springs and past the well, 
84 



SPIDER. SS 

Out into the flowery dell, 
Roaminof over hills of heather 
In the warm and sunny weather. 

Seeking" budding- spiceries 

In bewildering places 

To deck them with rare laces, 

To show a spider's graces 

Where odorless pale flowers unfold 

Their leaves by tombs of violets old, 

To hang them on the daisy's gold. 

Everywhere thou goest 

Each flower's haunt thou knowest. 
Where the quivering fern unrolls 
Feathered tips and feathered scrolls, 
And the Indian pipe her bowls 
Of bleached and waxen whiteness, 
To drape them with the lightness 
Of a spider-web attire. 
To hang thy web on elm-tree's spire 
Ambition sets thy soul on fire, 

Tiny, aspiring wanderer. 

Now thou swingest from a bough^ 
Confident that thou canst throw 
Thy little highway through the air ; 
Pathfinder where no highways are, 



S6 SPIDER. 

Elfin little wanderer. 
Architect, whose patient care 
Shames our needle's broidery, 
We might learn designs from thee. 
Who taught thee how to throw the line 
And hang the thread, so silken fine, 
And weave thy web of Valenciennes 
Along the evergreens ? 

Airy stuff. 

Fine enough 
For a ruffle or a puff 
To wear in fairy land, 
To wear In any elfin land. 
Silver-bright, pure as white 
Moonlight over pale pearl streaming 
When the world is dreaming. 

What If the gauzy net be torn. 
The web of all Its beauty shorn ! 
Another morn rises upon a fairer one. 
With one strong passion overborne 
To weave from sunset until morn 
Along the rushes' feathery curls, 
In the umbels and the whorls 

Of dill or carroway. 
On silken tassels of the corn 

Like a fairy at her play. 



THE YOUNGEST. 87 

The spider hath adorned the morn. 

Everywhere in earth or air 

Hath spun the spider fair. 

The genius that men call divine, 

And beauty's lovely dreams are thine. 

Thy patterns haunt thy thinking brain — 

Whence sprang they through the sun or rain ? 

What other life upholds thy thought ? 

By whom were thy fine patterns wrought? 



THE YOUNGKST. 




ID Juno bring thee in her car 

With peacocks through gold-spangled air? 

Or did she raise in beds of roses 
This boy, fairer than Summer posies ? 

A miracle of living grace, 
A baby with a cherub's face. 

Tis true that you can only stand 
Upon all four by foot or hand. 

And that your English talk is small, 
Since "dad" and "mam" comprises all. 



88 THE YOUNGEST. 

The bow of promise seems to span 
Thy budding life, fine httle man. 

We love to watch you at your play 
With kittens, frolicsome as they ; 

And almost sigh to think you can 
Grow, little child, to be a man. 




NATURK'S CARE. 




WALKED amid a place of graves : 

It was the Summer time ; 
Wild ferns had set their rootlets there, 

And maidens' hair and sweet wild thyme 
Ran all together like a rhyme, 
And blushing roses blossomed fair, 
Gold buttercups and daisies sweet 
Starred all the carpet for our feet, 
For Nature wove in many looms, 
Her woof was full of golden blooms ; 
Weaving her webs to deck the tombs, 
Or hillock were slept lass or lad — 
Or maiden fair, or matron sad 
As if a mother's heart she had ; 
She seemed intent to deck 
This still enclosure with the fleck 
Of buttercup, or purpled speck 
Of hare-bell, or of violet. 



I passed the quiet graves again. 
And now the Autumn sere 
Did shed, as if a flowery rain 
7 



89 



90 NATURE' S CARE. 

Above the tombs, a scarlet stain. 
How free they were from grief or pain, 

Those dead leaves of the year ; 
They shamed the sunset with their gold, 
And in a crimson robe did fold 
Each humble hillock cold ; 
And often near the empty nests, 
Birds bearing rainbows on their breasts, 
Or glinting topaz on their crests, 

Sanpf of a Paradise 
Far southward by the orange trees, 
Far downward through the golden seas, 

Of Autumn's sunset skies. 

And when the Winter boughs were bare, 

I passed, and lo, the snow 
There lay like ermines, white and fair 
And beautiful ; no stain was there 

On any hillock low. 
In gems of frost the boughs were wreathed, 
Above the ferns the frost had breathed. 
And o'er the tomb of boy or girl 
The reeds were decked in shimmering pearl, 
And pure as alabaster bright 
The snow lay over locks of white ; 
And gracious Nature seemed to say, 
" My children are asleep to-day ; 



GRANDMA AND JO. 91 

Pass on thy way, nor pause to weep, 
Disturb ye not their slumber deep ; 

Not any alabaster flake 
From off my ermines shalt thou take, 
Nor raise the coverings, lest they wake." 



;grandma and jo. 




[HE has snow-white hair and a snow-white cap, 
And a snow-white ruffle atop of that : 
And Jo loves to climb on grandmamma's lap, 
As she sits asleep in her easy chair ; 
For grandmamma never scolds nor says, 
" Now, run away, Jo," but softly she lays 
Her shrunken hand on each glossy curl, 
And whispers, " Grandmother's own little girl." 

Grandma will never let Jo be whipped. 
Cunning darling and rosy lipped ; 
For grandmamma's heart is soft as the sun 
Ripened peaches when summer is done. 
Mamma says, "Grandmothers spoil children so:" 
But grandmamma sits in the golden glow 
Of Heaven and cannot love whips, you know, 
And that makes it very pleasant for Jo. 



92 GRANDMA AND JO. 

If grandmamma ever had any care 

She has laid it down out of sight somewhere^ 

And now all she does is to say her prayer 

And sit where the sunshine gilds her hair, 

And play and whisper to little Jo 

As the shadows of evening come and go. 

For grandmamma's feet are close to the shore 
Of a river deep, where her friends before 
Have crossed, and her dear beloved gone o'er; 
And being so near to this shining shore 
Of course she never weeps any more ; 
She knows that soon she shall see them all, 
And she sometimes thinks she hears them call 
Out of the chamber or sky or hall. 

But she only kisses dear little Jo, 

And whispers " Soon we shall know, little sweety 

How the City looks with the golden street, 

And if pur beloved will hasten to meet 

Us who come up with travel-stained feet : 

There are Charlie and Jack, but you did not know 

Any of them, sweet little Jo." 




QUKEN BESS. 

'Mm ■ " 

itH,^^ Arab with his blooded steed that spurns 

the desert sands 
Has wealth enoug^h : he feeds her as his 

children from his hands ; 
And when he calls her by her name 'tis with a soft 

caress ; 
I love you as the Arab loves his steed, my swift 

Queen Bess. 
The name of many an ancient horse renowned in 

olden war, 
Whose rider bore the shield or sword, helmet or 

scimetar, 
Has perished in the lapse of time ; this lot, too will 

be thine. 
For name of horse and name of man alike have their 

decline. 



We leave the haunts of men to-day, their cities' 

strife, Queen Bess, 
To prove if Nature holds a balm for souls in dire 

distress. 

93 



94 QUEEN BESS. 

We are not bound to any mart, we seek not fame 

or gold, 
We throw them all as dross away, my good horse, 

fleet and bold. 
We seek the Indian in his tent, the haunt of bear or 

deer, 
That pathless solitude seek we where no sound smites 

the ear; 
Far better if no human form shall meet us in our way^ 
For we are done with love and hope ; we threw 

them all away. 

We ford the river's surging tide, we scale the moun- 
tain side. 
We cross the lone wolf-haunted plain, where no 

man dares abide ; 
Glimpses we catch of the wild horse, the untamed 

and the free, 
Companions of the winged winds that seem most fit 

to be ; 
We hear the whisper of the reeds, the sighing^ 

solemn tunes, 
They pipe forever in the wastes, amid the broad 

lagoons. 
Drink of the mountain spring, Queen Bess, eat of 

the tender grass. 
For we are tenants now of Him who owns each 

mountain pass. 



LINNET. 95 

At home on mountains free and large, at home 

beneath the air ; 
Wrought to a tent, sapphire and gold together 

folded fair ; 
Afar from all life's weary care ; and yet it does not 

cure. 
Nature is fair, yet the old wound will evermore 

endure. 
I feel the mildew on my heart, I know, my good 

Queen Bess, 
Some golden morn will dawn ere long to find thee 

riderless. 
I give thee back thy freedom, then pass on thou, 

bold and free. 
To meadows broad ; let no man lay his hand hence- 
forth on thee. 



LINNET. 




HE linnet sang her little song. 

The gilded wire 
That built her cage was bright but strong. 

In her home's spire 
She had essayed to build a nest ; 

Three straws, three hairs, 



96 LINNET. 

A downy feather from her breast, 

These httle cares 
Fatigued her, yet she wrought her best. 

And as the April days grew long, 

This small bird's thought, 
Which she had woven with her song, 

Was duly wrought. 
The empty cradle finished hung ; 

Yet all alone 
She sang ; there came no linnets young 

From sun to sun. 

Patient, and yet she seemed to need 

The woods and air, 
The fragrance of the thistle's seed. 

The wood fern's hair 
Whereon to rest her velvet feet. 

No sad complaint 
Made linnet, but sang ever sweet 

Her carols quaint. 

Till on one late September morn 

They found her dead ; 
Her wings, the hue of ripened corn, 

Bright were outspread ; 
For linnet in the dawn had heard 

The whir of wings, 



LINNET. 97 

The rustlincj of gay troops of birds 
Toward other Springs, 

And stretching wide her sunny wings, 

One wild strange thrill 
Of hope swept all those silken strings 

Of life ; a thrill 
So wild it broke this winged lyre, 

Shattered she lay, 
All broken of this vain desire 

To fly away. 

Sadly within her empty nest 

We press each wing; 
Sorry we knew not what was best 

For those who sing. 
Close by a stalk of thistle's seed 

We hide the bird ; 
And sighing, weep for hearts that bleed 

Of Hope deferred. 




MIGRATORY BIRDS. 




N dire extremity oppressed, 
A wounded bird sank to earth's breast p 
With music's soul she was possessed. 
Sadly she chanted with the rest, 
All other notes dropped from the strain^ 
Repeating ever this refrain — 
"The year is over, I must fly 
Where Summer roses never die." 
Her soul within her thirsted so 
With the migrating flocks to go ; 
But those soft wines no more on air 
Should spread their silken splendor there. 
This sinorer wore the outward sheen 
In which her life adorned had been. 
The glitter of a burning zone 
Still o'er the burnished feathers shone; 
Her shining mantle was of down, 
And seamless was this mantle sewn. 
Of gleaming emerald was her crown ; 
She could not leave her cloak of gold^ 
Like the departing seer of old, 



MIGRATORY BIRDS. 99 

The coming prophet to enfold ; 
Nor could her voice of prophecy. 
Her tuneful thrilling minstrelsy, 
Be yielded as a legacy 
To some new singer passing by. 

Her young brood lately had outgrown 

Their nest and learned to live alone, 

They sought the ripe wheat's yellow shocks,. 

They swung upon the mullein stalks, 

And played with other youngling flocks. 

Leaving the wounded bird alone, 

Their thoughts turned toward that tropic zone 

Where grew the sheen in which they shone. 

They listened for the winged beat 

Of flocks on pinions, strong and fleet, 

Waiting to follow throug^h the air 

The guide to lands of promise fair. 

Some patriarch who the landmarks knew 

Through continents of azure blue. 

Now music's daughter nearly dumb 
Felt death's chill breath her soul benumb. 
It almost seemed this chill of death 
Had triumphed o'er the singing breath ; 
Her mate, her brood were quite forgot, 
Yet life's eternal song- was not. 



MIGRATORY BIRDS. 

A flock of comrades floating by, 

Buoyant along a Southern sky^ 

Halted to rest, and so did sing 

Stones of a perpetual Spring. 

She heard them and her answering song 

Replied in accents sweet and strong. 

Life flowed out with song's rushing tide, 

For as the singer so replied 

She quivered like a lyre, and died. 

Poor minstrel ! How that parting note 
The day with sudden sorrow smote ! 
And yet the note of victory rung 
Triumphant in the song she sung ; 
As one who met and vanquished death 
And would not yield the singing breath. 

After life's fitful wanderings 
Perhaps she felt the Eternal Spring 
Draw near her upon balmy wings ; 
And, as the tuneful singer dies, 
Perhaps some new discoveries 
Of shorter paths to vernal skies. 
To where the fadeless country lies, 
Disclose them to her half-closed eyes. 



MARY. 



^; 



^^^ 
^:@; 



^^^r LL in the early days of Spring, 

Mary with skillful hands did spin, 
*^ Softly singing, softly spinning, 
While meadows sweet were blossomino; 
With clover red, or streaked with wing 
Of meadow lark, or bobolink, 
Or other happy birds who think 
They have good right to chirp and sing. 



Overhead the pet canary 

Spun very wise and very wary, 

Singing her little song like Mary, 

And wove from out some magic loom 

For four a little downy room. 

The silken hours their course did run, 

The thrice-bleached snowy robes were done 

And wrapped about fair Mary's son. 

An infant full of winsome grace, 

With pretty, smiling, rosy face, 

A baby in his snow-white dress 

To love and kiss and to caress. 



MA R Y. 

Overhead the pet canary's 
Babies sang as well as Mary's. 
Days fly away ; the baby walks ; 
Months hasten and the man-child talks ; 
He grows too fast, time flies too fast, 
Would that his boyish days might last, 
Sighs Mary ; but away to school 
He pfoes from mother's siorht and rule. 
'Tis a long sad day for Mary. 

Yet, still his face is smooth and fine, 

Unbearded, fair, almost divine, 

And like a flower to Mary. 

Time will not stay, the boy is grown. 

Where are the years so swiftly flown ? 

His beard is like the lion's mane, 

And Mary seeketh all in vain 

The fair small face once blossoming 

Amid the robes of linen. 

Shedding a tear o'er the robes dear, 
She bids adieu to each lost year ; 
She yields her boy unto the world, 
Sees on the distaff softly furled 
The silky flakes of linen. 
But cares no more for spinning. 



PANSY AND MIGNONETTE. 

A wife and children are with him, 
O'er Mary falls life's Winter dim. 
What compensation now hath Mary 
For all her love and care of him ? 

None. The golden-winged canary 
Long years hath ceased to ply her loom, 
And left the valleys of perfume 
To other birds and other bloom ; 
And lonesome gray-haired Mary 
Folds her thin hands upon her breast 
Feebly, and goes away to rest. 
Her last, sad thought remembering 
Those far-off days of spinning 
The little robes of linen. 



PANSY AND MIGNONETTE. 



b|pHE world, mignon, begins to weep, 

To weep and sigh before the sleep, 
The frost, that soon will settle deep 

On tender leaf, 

On bud or sheaf; 
The days that sparkled in the sun, 
The balmy days we loved, are gone. 



104 PANSY AND MIGNONETTE. 

" But ere the storms these beds of bloom^ 
These valleys full of sweet perfume 
Shall beat, we will haste to our tomb, 

For mignonette, 

Nor pansy yet 
Had ever heart for days of grief, 
Nor pleasure in the falling leaf." 

" And what hast thou or what have I^ 
Thou purple flower with golden eye, 
To do when bitter winds go by ? 

No pansy yet, 

Nor mignonette 
Hath tarried long when earth appears 
All sorrowful and stained with tears. 

" While we shall sleep within the dell 
Some other blooms next year will tell 
That we did blossom quite as well. 

Life's secret dies 

Not when our eyes 
Close on superb Autumnal days. 
Naturehath many gracious ways, 

" And keepeth all her patterns well„ 
Nor loseth she the asphodel, 
Nor bitter wormwood of the dell, 



FANSY AND MIGNONETTE. 105 

Nor yet the bold, 

Brio^ht marioold. 
Will she not then as careful be 
That our ripe seeds the year shall see? 

" Pansy and mignonette we grew 
Like lovers all the summer through, 
We drank from the same cup the dew, 

Our rootlets met. 

So were they set 
So near tog-ether in the mould, 
They clasped and loosened not their hold. 

^' We shared life's loveliness and light, 
The days o'erflowing with delight, 
Now let us close for aye our sight 

Before the blight, 

Ere winter's night. 
For there remains no more to see, 
Sweet sister flower, for you and me." 





LONG AGO. 




^T was lonq;- ago, and the winter snow 
Fri} ^^ ^»^ drifteth cold above me now, 

But I walk in the Hght of a sun that is set. 

For I cannot forget 
My fair young love in her beauty yet. 



Those days are fled, 

And my love lies dead, 
With a marble dove above her head ; • 
For long ago Death's winter cold 
Drifted over her locks of gold. 

But she is not old, 

For my heart doth fold 
That bright young image to have and to hold. 



In the pleasant time so long ago 
We walked by the elder hedge, white as snow^ 
And the fiery sunset with dazzling glow v 
Sifted its gold through the tree boughs low. 



io6 



LONG AGO. 107 

And each fiery speck 
Her snow-white neck 
With its ripe red gold and fire did fleck. 

The fearless birds of the homestead came, 

Half wild and half tame, 
Like arrows home in the golden flame, 

I see my love now 
With the day's last light on her snow-white 
brow. 

She lives for me in that Loner Aoro, 
She lives and moves in her beauty yet ; 
Other sorrowful eyes with tears may be wet, 

But the eyes of my Dove, 

My darling my love. 
Beam as bright forme in their innocent light, 
As the gleaming stars in the crown of night. 

I am not alone. 

Though those days are flown. 
Memory needeth no marble stone. 
I live in the early light that shone 
Over happy days when I was young, 

When a nightingale sung 
For every rose with melodious tongue. 

I live in the clime 

Of youth's summer time, 



io8 OA IS. 



And under the rifts of the winter snow 
The nightingales sing and the roses glow, 
For I loved her so in the Long Ago 
That her memory warmeth this old heart now. 



OATS. 




MALL, mimic boat, 

Fine, ghostly oat, 
On such a barge might fairies float ; 

On a frail thing, 

Half stem, half wing, 
Vibrating, trembling, fluttering. 

Here ghosts do talk 

And elves do walk 
Between yon straws the fauns do stalk ; 

You tell of Pan, 

That wild god-man, 
And all his music-loving clan. 

There is a sound, 

A sigh profound, 
Of music from the oat-sown ground, 

All low and sweet, 

As if the beat 
Of wings did stir the noonday heat. 



OA TS. 

Where oats do grow 

'Tis sweet to go, 
To hear their ghostly whispers low ; 

They never will 

Hang mute and still, 
But quaver in a treble shrill. 

Of grasses tall 

The fine oat small 
Most music-loving is of all ; 

It loves to sinor 

As it does swing 
Upon its stem, the tiny thing ! 

Smooth, golden straw 

Without a flaw, 
Such burnished shafts man never saw. 

Sail, little oat, 

Thy singing boat, 
Between the skv and earth afloat. 



109 




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1 



THE FOUR SISTERS. 




ERENE and fair of face, 

Old Mother Earth her seat 
Took at the head, beside the bed, 
And Fire stood at the feet. 

Wringfinof lier white hands 

Came pale and tearful Water, 

Yet rainbows span'd her dark hair bands, 
God's elder, sad-eyed daughter. 

Rosy as clouds that burst at dawn 
In flamin-g-, splendid blossom, 

Rose nymph-like Air on wings all fair, 
Hands folded on her bosom. 

So waited they, the sisters fair, 

Each in her place attending, 
To take her own when this frail house 

Should fall yet have no ending. 

Fire first stretched forth her hand : 

The d)ing man grew colder ; 
no 



THE FOUR SISTERS. i 

A hue of ashes slowly spread 

From brow and cheek to shoulder. 

Water, weeping, faltering- cried : 

"Give me back my dower! " 
The tears ran down the woful face, 

And answered in a shower. 

Air, the Spirit, gently sighed. 

And bending o'er the breath. 
That change passed o'er this feeble house 

The chanore that men call Death. 

o 

*' All that remaineth now is mine, 

Temple of God. so grand," 
Said Earth ; she kissed the cold white face, 

The feeble, powerless hand. 

And clasped the fallen house of clay 

Lovingly to her breast, 
Whispering " ever dear to me, 

With me you shall find rest." 

The Earth created of her share 

A pale forget-me-not. 
Fire set her spark, a jewel fair. 

In a star-clustered spot. 



112 THE FOUR SISTERS. 

And where the dazzHng rainbows shine 

Celestial gleams of light, 
The Water huno^ her dower fine 

Along these arches bright. 

But none do know where thin, fine Air 
Hath hid or placed her own. 

Or where abides her subtle share 
In cold or tropic zone. 

When all the sisters had their share. 
Remained, that none did claim, 

A stranger with a high born air, 
Without a home or name. 

It asked of these old sisters four, 
•' Tell me whose share am I ? " 

They bowed their heads in silence all,. 
None of them made reply. 

The voice of the Eternal God 
Answered " The last is mine, 

For which I make of Earth and Air, 
Water and Fire, a shrine. 

" Older than ye, my daughters four, 
The Soul belongs to me. 



VINE. 113 

Its home is heaven, its changeless Hfe 
Shares my Eternity." 



VINE. 



UXURIANT thing, 
„KS3S- Child of the Spring-, 
^ "'" 'Tis plain to see that your desire 
Is for the sun, the orb of fire, 
So high you grow, 
Your tendrils so 
Leap upward to embrace some star 
Thou knowest not from thee how far. 

Sweet Summer child. 

Vine strong and wild. 
Thou art the emblem to entwine 
Ambitious brows ; man's soul divine 

Signals the star 

Through dusk afar 
Of slumbrous amethyst that glows 
Farther away than science knows. 

Sweet Summer vine, 
So high and fine, 
Alas, alas, what hour the frost 



114 VINE. 

Touches thy tendrils thou art lost ; 

And man so proud 

Does in his shroud, * 
Frost-smitten vine, resemble thee. 
Fine rambler that outran the tree. 

Aspire and i:;^row, 

'Tis better so ; 
The grandeur of a heavenly breath 
Shows through the feebleness of death. 

Hang out your sign, 

Ambitious vine ; 
Live for the sky, and hope and climb 
Through all the sultry summer-time. 

And thou, proud man, 

Thy hopes outran 
The most luxuriant summer vine ; 
Thy soul did reach towards things divine ; 

Towards starry glow ; 

'Twas better so. 
For angels read on thy dead face 
High thoughts that had in heaven their place. 



THK AGED MONK. 



"An aged Monk lived so long alone with a marble 
face of Christ that he grew to be like it." 



?^N the olden time there once lived within an 
?(>'/jft abbey dim 

>•' An aged man who only read, and prayed, 
and sang his hymn. 



mi 



In stern seclusion lived he there ; his daily fare was 

bread, 
With water, and a wisp of straw pillowed this old 

man's head. 

He had not always been a man so weary, wan and 

old; 
His kindly heart, from youth to age, was never hard 

or cold. 

But every thought and every hope of life had long 

been given 
Unto the high and beautiful, the lordly King of 

Heaven. 

"5 



ii6 THE AGED MONK. 

He read the story of Christ's birth, within the silent 

room, 
Of garden and of crucifix, and angel-haunted tomb. 

Upon the mount whence Christ went up, the lilies 
seemed to bloom. 

For Moses, and Elias too, they yielded their per- 
fume, 

And all this mountain of the Lord seemed sweet 

with flowers, and bright, 
As down the heavenward slanting beams come 

wing's and forms of light. 

And all the company he had, within his cell alone. 

Was Christ's face, that some artist's hand had 

sculptured out of stone. 

It was enough ; it was a heaven ; it shone a splendid 

star, 
Fair as the herald that appeared in Bethlehem afar. 

And keeping such high company, the old man grew 

to be 
Fair as an angel of the Lord, and beautiful to see. 

And men did say, that on his face the lovely image 
there 



GRAND FA THER GRA Y. 717 

They saw of Christ's sweet, marble face, all heavenly 
and fair. 

Nor principalities, nor powers, nor life, nor death 

could part 
These two, the aged man and Christ, the brother of 

his heart. 



GRANDFATHKR GRAY. 




grandfather Gray has snow-white hair. 
And the top of his head is smooth and bare, 
And I sometimes say to grandfather Gray 

Did the boys of your time wear aprons blue, 

Were they bald on the top of the head like you ? 

He smiles, and says when you get to be 

In the seventies, Charlie, you will see. 

That is our church on the hillside high. 

The pigeons into its belfry fly. 

On Sundays, holding my grandfather's hand, 

I go there to pray. It is large and grand. 

To keep me quiet, my grandfather takes 

Along with him, Sundays, some apples and cakes. 

There once was a girl, her name was Rose, 
She came there dressed in her Sunday clothes, 



ii8 GRANDFATHER GRA\. 

Her ribbons were blue, such pretty bows 

Nobody ever saw as those ; 

And I never saw such a pretty child 

As she was, when she turned to our pew and smiled^ 

For she sat in front of grandfather's seat. 

And I gave her apples and cakes to eat, 

But then one Sunday they brought her there 

In a box, asleep, and they said a prayer ; 

And my grandfather said she had gone away 

Into the Kingdom of Heaven to stay. 

My grandfather Gray and I, at night, 

Sit all alone in the fire's bright light, 

But he nods his head and falls asleep, 

As the hands up the great clock creep and creep. 

Like a race up hill till half-past nine. 

And I pat the cat's head, that's a friend of mine, 

My grandfather wakes up by and by, 

Who slept, he says, Charlie, you or I } 

We live alone, for our friends they say, 

Every one of them, all are gone away 

Into the Kingdom of Heaven to stay. 




CARDINAL FLOV^ER. 

^^^^ 

' ^^^N the breast of the Summer, vanished and 

^^ ended, 



Thou wilt swoon no more, frail blossom of 
red. 
Perished cardinal flower of desert morasses, 

The bloom of thy brightness and beauty is fled. 
From the heart of the Summer the bud yet unfolded 
That was snatched, keeps forever its secret untold, 
Though rains of the fountains and unstinted measure 
Of sunshine baptise it in dew or in gold. 

No power can revive those ephemeral treasures. 

Born to blush on the breast of the Summer an hour,. 
The queen is departed, the glory is fading. 

Of bright golden rod and of cardinal flower. 
Purple pale asters, your many shades blending, 

White everlasting and delicate grass. 
Your queen lies asleep in the arms of September, 

And the flowers that she cherished must perish, 

alas ! 

119 



1 20 CARD IN A L FLO WER. 

Her face is untouched by a line of Time's finger, 

She is fallen asleep, amid poppies and wheat ; 
Let none shed a tear for the roses and lilies 

That lie on her mother-breast, stainless and sweet, 
For she came of a race that must die in its glory, 

While reapers with sickles through aisles of the 
grain, 
And ripe loads of wheat tell the vanquished queen's 
story, 

And birds of the wilderness join the refrain. 

Corn, rye, wheat and oats, ye battalions of grasses, 

With glittering bayonets holding the land. 
Ye wild organ reeds of the lonesome morasses, 

Bow to her whose scepter now falls from her hand! 
For her sing, ye song birds, the glory is over ; 

Ye thrushes and blackbirds and sweet singers all, 
Sing, children and maidens, sing poet or lover; 

The voice is now mute that once answered ye all. 

But break thou, oh heart ! thou sad desolate mourner 
Alone in the gardens of perishing bloom, 

Where each wind-torn censer that burneth its incense 
Seems a fast-waning taper that shines by a tomb. 

The birds may return and the earth-buried rootlets 
Hold a hope and a life through the long winter's 
frost, 



GRASS. 



But no Spring brings back the ephemeral treasures 
Of hfe's early morning, now perished and lost. 



GRASS. 




LL thank you not to grow so high, 

So thick and fast, thou busy grass, 
For if you do, then how shall I, 

In all the world find room to pass? 
I do not wish to bruise your blade, 

Or crush your humble little bloom 
But every inch of all the glade 

Is full of grass ; there is no room." 

"You need not fear to crush my flower ; 

My powerful friends, the dew and rain, 
Will raise me up within the hour. 

Pass on ; the grass will not complain, 
The herds, the men, the children pass ; 

They come and go, but cannot kill ; 
No hardship beateth back the grass ; 

Anew it ever springeth still. 

" For God hath made the grrass to be 

o 

Humble and sturdy, strong to grow. 
And not ashamed if men do see 
9 



122 GRASS. 

Me as the poorest friend they know. 
I feel no envy for the high, 

Nor grudge the wayside flower her grace. 
God blesses me, and even I 

Make glad the waste and desert place. 

"And yet I bring my small raceme 

Of fairy bloom to bright July. 
Not one of all the flowers does seem 

More graceful then, more fresh than I. 
The rose hath in her garden dwelt, 

The object of a tender care. 
While I the spurning foot have felt 

A thousand times, yet am as fair." 

"Thanks, gentle preacher, for thy song; 

Thy little sermon of to-day. 
'Tis not too high, 'tis not too long ; 

Thy life adds all that thou would'st say : 
Still, ever, in fresh beauty weave. 

Still brood o'er all the wilding bees, 
Still cover hearts that once did grieve, 

With softest flower-starred tapestries." 





JEANNIK AND JOHN. 



f^^LL nature ran into a rhyme : 
^^W It was a day in summer time, 

When hyssop bloomed with mint and thyme; 
A day in June^ 
When roses swoon, 
And John and jean went down to see 
The country, where the air blows free, 

Jeannie was turned of seventeen, 

And John was fair as lads are seen ; 

Blue flowers bloomed all the turfs between. 

The sky above 

Was warm, and love 
Stole in the hearts of lad and lass 
From blooming bud and vernal grass. 

The lovely earth was all aglow, 

And elder hedges showed their snow ; 

They fell in love — alas ! " You know 

How 'tis yourself! " 

Cupid, the elf, 

123 



124 THE ENGINEER. 

His arrow shot, and home it sped, 
Wounding the heads of roses red. 

And overhead at morn and noon 
Housekeeping robins sang their tune, 
Expecting to be matrons soon. 

How could they pray 

On such a day, 
But dream some sweet deUgrhtful dream, 
When flowers were out by hedge or stream ? 

The moral is,. as you may know ; 
Don't go where roses are aglow, 
Down country paths, by hedge of snow, 

Where elders grow. 

Because I know. 
True as the sky is blue above. 
That you and John will fall in love. 



THE ENGINEER. 




\ T early dawn the Engineer 
^"^ Came down from haunts of fawn and deer. 
Some fragrance of the mountain rose, 
That in the far-off stillness grows, 



THE ENGINEER. 125 

Some freshness of the mountain stream 
Some crystal waters' dancing gleam, 
Some softness of the velvet moss 
Seemed borne with him the land across 

For he came down from heights serene, 
Through leaofues and leasfues of livine green. 
His coal train thundering by in state, 
Seaward, where distant cities wait. 

His winged steed, his horse of lire 
Swept past, and shamed the vain desire 
Of action, and the strong unrest. 
By which man's spirit is possessed. 

The Engineer stood at his post 
As one in thought absorbed and lost ; 
No pleasure lured him by the way. 
No beauty of the Summer day. 

Alert, active and self-possessed, 
He watched a steed that needs no rest ; 
Through meadows, uplands, dale and town, 
It whirled and dashed and thundered on. 

Yet once, once in the early June, 
When the wild roses were in swoon. 
Intoxicated with perfume. 
And all the world was red with bloom, 



126 THE ENGINEER. 

The Engineer looked from his den, 
The early dawn was breaking then, 
And threw a kiss to me before 
The train passed by the cottage door. 

And the salute I understood: 
He threw the kiss to womanhood. 
To all the charm and all the grace 
That maketh home a pleasant place. 

And I, unto the chevalier, 
Without reproach or without fear. 
Whose life was duty, stern and grave. 
The answering salutation gave. 

Man's conquests to the world remain 
When he, frail one is dust again ; 
With power to mould the earth at will, 
This hero is a mortal still. 







■v«^^ ;■ 



FIR TRKK. 



|,c^HERE do you go, old Sexton gray, 
j^^^ With your well-worn, spade this winter day ?" 

" I am going up to the churchyard fir. 
The roots of that ancient tree to stir." 

" But the snow is afloat and the winds blow so 
Tempest-like that I would not go." 

" The way is pathless and bleak, but I must 
Go to-day or the spade will rust." 

"Sprays of diamond are in your hair. 

The sleet flashes bright from the cap you wear. 

" Ah, well I know, I can read your brow, 
Speak low old Sexton, but tell me now: 

"Who is it waits for the Sexton's spade 
Whose grave this day is to be made ? " 

" 'Tis a litde lily, a little girl 

With lips of rose and golden curl." 

127 



128 FIR TREE. 

"Ah, then return, go back, for the day 
Is all too bleak for the child, I say." 

" But the frost and the snow are naught to her^ 
And thick is the shelter of the fir." 

" But I tell thee, Sexton, it is too cold 
For lips of roses and curls of gold." 

" Yes, so the mothers of earth have said 
Since first they began to weep for the dead. 

" Hark to the words that I whisper my dear, 
Do not weep for the babes, do not have a fear. 

''For there comes an hour in the night when the fir 
Flames into gold by the sepulchre. 

" And through the boughs of each old tree 
Falls a song of the stars full of melody. 

" Come little children, come to me, 

'Tis a Shepherd's song and they hear and see. 

" They are gone, all gone, and the cold bleak air 
Of frost does not touch a forehead fair ; 

" For the Shepherd comes, in his Shepherd's plaid, 
He gathers them up, little lass or lad, 



JACK FROST. 139. 

" And the grave is bare and empty and lone, 
For Shepherd and lamb are together flown." 



JACK FROST. 



^^r^f HOSE cunning hand adorns each room, 
/^kr-v-: Working through night's long hours of 
CTloom ? 
Who guides the loom 
Whose patterns run to woodland ferns. 
Old arabesque and flower-filled urns? 
All exquisite. 
Each line doth fit ; 
Whose work is it? 

Jack Frost, whence came the patterns rare ; 
These quaint designs of frozen air ? 
For most this dainty genius weaves 

Fern leaves : 
Can any tell, in woody dell, 
The sprays that serve for patterns well ? 

The coruscations of the snow 

In small stars glow, doth any know 

How they grew so ? 
Hath any mortal entered in 



I30 J A CK FROST. 

The storehouse of the grim Ice-King, 
Where pearls of ice are ghttering 
On everything? 
Jack is a scout 
This kino- sends out. 

In filaments of fine frost spun 
Glitters each splendid star or sun. 

All this is done 
But to adorn one winter night ; 
The frost flowers grow in Orion's light, 
But fade at morning's dawn so bright. 
All exquisite, 
The fair forms flit ; 
No more their lights of crystal burn 
But fern and star and shining urn 
Dissolve and into vapor turn. 





BOHEMIA 






— A-U^ 



OHEMIA, thy cloudland lies 
'^|^;i :; With all its rare empurpled dyes 
Not far away. 
And any day 
The weary pilgrim o'er the stile 
May step and dream or rest awhile, 

And there he may 
Feel all life's burdens roll away. 

Bohemia, thy grapes are sweet. 

Thy gray old trees o'erarch each street 

And half-way meet ; 

Travel-worn feet 
Sink in the moss or grass so deep 
And soft, that any one may sleep, 

As on a bed 
Forever for the weary spread. 

Bohemia, thy people all 

Are happy, old or great or small, 

All pleasant, kind, 

All of one mind, 

131 



132 BOHEMIA. 

Content with what the land doth yield. 
Each envying not his neighbor's field. 

And all possessed 
Of one desire for joy or rest. 

Bohemia, no real age 
Touches philosopher or sage, 

Fraternally 

The young and gay 
Walk hand in hand with men of gray ; 
Their heads are gray, hearts young alway. 

Bohemia 
Gives youth and immortality. 

In fair Bohemia no death 

Comes ; when the singer yields his breath 

They only say 

He steals away 
Far down into the Boehmer wald 
Of Scandinavian or scald, 

To learn to sing. 
New songs from birds upon the wing. 

They only say the singer sleeps 
And his long dreams in silence keeps 

Over his lute ; 

And bird or flute 



RAIN DROPS 



f33 



Would wake him to a sweet surprise, 
Would make him ope his heaven-closed eyes. 

He will not wake 
The dreamer nor his slumber break. 



RAIN DROPS. 



ii)fe|^yROM the cradle of a cloud, 
^^1^ From the silver of its shroud, 
With the patter and the beat 
Of a thousand fairy feet, 
Drip, drop, drip, drop down the locust leaves 
All the olden roof across, 

Like sad semibreves 
Plashing in the eaves, 
Running down the garden walks, 
Through the stems of hollyhocks, 
And out amid the sheaves. 

Fallinor like a crentle kiss 

From the heaven's tenderness, 

Dropping down so sweet and still 

Over fern and daffodil, 

Drip, drop, drip, drop, but you will not stay. 

Hastening on to form a spring, 



134 RAIN D R OPS. 

Where the birds may plash or sing ; 

Hasten, haste away, 

How you love your play. 
To the cadence of a brook, 
Bent to many a curve or crook. 
You dance the livelong- day. 

Past the spray of birch or beech. 

On beyond the willow's reach, 

Heedless of the fiowers that burn, 

In the reeds like star or urn. 

Drip, drop, drip drop, for the lake make room, 

Rolls a river all the noon, 

Rushing on by cloud or moon, 

Through a desert's gloom 

Lit by palms abloom. 
On through jungles where may drink 
Leopards from a velvet brink, 
What shapes you do assume. 

Now forgetful of thy birth 
Bidding long adieu to earth. 
Gathered, gathering at length 
Into all the Ocean's strength : 
Drip, drop, drip, drop, lo you hold a fleet ! 
• Men their treasures bear o'er thee 
Tempting the majestic sea, 



PL OVERS. 

Pearls and rubies meet 
Honey, corn or wheat 
For the ships do represent 
Every shining continent, 
Every city's busy street. 



135 



PLOVKRS. 

;'<^JT the side of a lake, where the grass grew 
^:@1v the best 

" ""^ And warmest, two plovers constructed their 
nest, 

Soft and secure, yet touching the edge 

Of the deep lakelet, and fanned by the sedge. 

And after a little, four eggs, brown and white, 
Filled the hearts of the bridegroom and bride with 
delight. 

The eggs turned to birds, and with wings and with 

crest. 
Four promising plovers filled brimful that nest. 

This was the song that the plovers sung, 

As bride and groom sang it, so sang their young : 



136 PLOVERS. 

''The world is so large, there's so much to eat, 
That you and I will not toil, my sweet. 

*' For the water brings to our very feet 
Fishes and flies, and enough to eat. 

*' Sing thou, therefore, as I sing my sweet ; 
The plovers toil not for their daily meat. 

" Men toil and men sweat to harvest the grain, 
The plovers sing through the sun and the rain, 

" Men weary themselves to gather the wheat, 
While the plovers sing and the plovers eat. 

"For man is little, but God is great; 
His harvests flow in in a wondrous state 

" From woodland, meadow, valley and hill, 
And he biddeth each wild bird to eat his fill. 

*' Sing little birds, sing the wild birds hymn, 
Giving doth not impoverish Him." 




MOUSIE. 



Ai 




AID one mouse to another mouse : 
" Pray visit me 
And see the treasures of my house 

And granary : 
My mansion is within a sheaf 

Of ripest wheat, 
And there no mouse can come to grief 
For lack of qieat." 

" Oh, happy, fortune-favored mouse : 

So rich to be ; 
To dwell within such furnished house, 

To live so free 
From all life's weary cares, the cat, 

The many snares 
Spread for the homeless mouse or rat 

Who illy fares." 

" I have life's comforts," said the mouse, 

" Yet I have grief. 
By mine, a swallow has her house, 

An idle thief 

lo 137 



138 MOUSIE. 

Who eats as though the wheat were her's. 

A saucy bird, 
And from her nest she hardly stirs. 

Who ever heard 

" Such conduct in a naughty bird ? 

And then she sings ! 
Of hypocrites that I have heard 

That swallow's wings 
Carries the worst. Alas 'tis true, 

Because she looks 
As innocent and guileless, too, 

As if no books 

" Explained to us the me and thou ; 

The Decalogue 
Will some day choke this bird, I know. 

The soulless log ! 
To sit and sing while meadows teem 

With fly or bug, 
And o'er her worthless eggs to dream. 

I wish the Thug, 

"That dreary wretch, that small barn owl 

Who hunts for me, 
Would catch this little worthless fowl, 

Glad would I be. 



MOUSIE. 139 

I swear to you, I never do 

Go out to call 
Without the fear that I into 

His clutch may fall. 

" So that, my dear, the great or small 

Each has his woe. 
My house is in a wheat rick tall, 

And yet I know 
How in his cell the pris'ner feels ; 

And how he feels, 
Too, when the thief his face reveals 

And boldly steals. 

" It is a wicked, wicked world ; 

If little mice 
And yellow wheat made all the world, 

That would be nice ; 
No cat, no trap, no dreadful owl 

To scare a mouse, 
And like a fiend to hunt and prowl 

About the house." 




CROW. 

^KBONY black and beautiful crow, 

"^ Where do you come from, where would you 
f?o ? 
You are beleaguered, a captive of snow. 
Bitterly, bitterly, 
From the Northeasterly 
Point of the compass drifteth the snow ; 
And from the Northernmost 
Point of the continent 
Legions of winds, escaping from banishment^ 
Sullenly call to the snow. 



How the great trees shiver, 
All their fine limbs quiver. 

As each mad wind gives them a blow. 

Do not fly on while the tempest beats so ; 
In the warm citadel 

Of the great barnyard, you will fare well. 

Brindle will let you alight on her back, 

And eat of her grain and share of the stack. 

Stay by our barn, keep your toes warm ; 

140 



CR O Jl . 141 

Papa or Ned from the wheat rick will throw 
Breakfast and supper to you, pretty crow, 
We do not grudge you a bit of our bread, 
The birds have orood rigfht as we to be fed. 

The snow-birds, pretty things 
With silver lining to ashen gray wings 

The time have found out 

And cluster about, 
For the farm fodderingrs. 

The litde flock all 

Comes at our call, 

They answer our greeting 

With their twee, tweeting, 

And up on the casement 

And down by the basement 
Leave us the cunningest, tiniest speck 

Of footprint or beak. 

The barnyard is full 

Of sheep covered with wool. 

And turkey, and hen. 

And pigs out of pen, 

And lazy old cows 

That dream as they browse ; 
What they're thinking about 

Nobody can know, 

Not even a crow. 



142 SOFT MAPLE . 

Stay with us all winter, beautiful crow. 
If you are not as white as the snow — 
All of the feathered race cannot be so. 

Nor need cynics complain 

That a crow cannot sing 

Any song or refrain : 
With purple black feathers, satin smooth wings^ 

You are as fine as a kinof. 

Is it your fault, as you croak on a tree, 
That you do not know how to sing Do, Fa, Ra, 
Me? 

Song is a gift, 
We are sure you would lift 

Your voice to soprano, 

If rythm would flow 

At the will of a crow. 



SOFT MAPLE. 



vfo y^ARDON me for making my adieu so early. 
if^-, But having bloomed so long and bloomed' 
^^' so well, 

Permit me early in the Autumn days to say, Fare- 
well ! 



SOFT MAPLE. 143 

F-or having bloomed so long- and bloomed so early, 
You know I came in widi the hurly-burly 
Of those passionate March days, 
Let me make adieu in days of grace. 

For my scarlet limbs were all aglow 

With bloom before the April snow ; 

Do you not remember when in March, for whips, 

The schoolboys broke my branches, redder than 

their lips ? 
And my crimson tassels on the breast of Spring 
I laid first the earliest offering. 
I was here to greet the Spring, and blossoming 
Ere the bluebird to the April days displayed her 

wing. 

Flash the radiant beauty over dell 
And wilderness and meadow ; yet farewell. 
Let this tender sunset of the year 
Throw its mellowness upon my red leaves growing 
sere. 

Burn and wave each torch of red, 

Blood-red crimson, burn and throw 

O'er the world a fiery glow ; 

Spill your splendors in a glare of fitful beauty ; 

Life is over, growth is ended, done is duty ; 

All the work and all the toil is done ; 



144 SO FT MAP LE . 

Dying leaves of dying trees eclipse the sun, 
Toil is over; Saturnalia begun. 

Run ! run ! run ! who goes fastest in this race ? 

Lo ! it is the blood-red maple leads the chase. 

I will run the fastest, in the foremost conflaofration 

keep my place ; 
Let me say adieu the first ; my comrades, grant this 

grace ! 

Shouting in exuberance of wild delight, 
The yellow leaves all drunken, day and night 
Wave the wild splendors of their wondrous light; 
And madly burn yet do not overtake me quite. 

I am nothing in this crash of beauty, let me go ; 

Feeble leaf and feeble storm, let eo •' 

Let me float a moment on the wings 

Of the winds before I fall below 

To the bosom of the earth whence beauty springs 

New, out of life's eternal fountains. 





CHRISTMAS-TREE. 




OW let us to the woods away 
And choose our Christmas-tree to-day; 
Which shall it be, hemlock or fir, 
Or pine tree ; which do you prefer? 

Or, cedar, bitter both and sweet? 
They all, indeed, are very meet, 
For every one hath on the sheen 
Of a perpetual evergreen. 

The living tree alone we bring, 
Its green, sweet branches, to our King; 
The fountain of its life doth flow 
Gently beneath the winter snow. 

The earth is decked in stainless white 
In honor of Christ's natal night, 
Strung o'er with many a frosty gem 
Glitters her splendid diadem. 

Here sings the evergreen her hymn 
Amid the cold woods, gray and dim ; 

145 



146 CHRISTMAS-TREE. 

Say, have you seen in any path 
Of wood, the beauty Winter hath? 

In ice and pearl, and gay cascade, 
Frozen, the woods are now arrayed, 
And piled upon the evergreen 
The ermine of the snow is seen. 

Now cut the evergreen and bring 
It home, an offering to our King. 
What says this fresh green tree to thee. 
With boughs so sweet, so fresh to see? 

To-night it blooms in many lands, 

An emblematic tree it stands ; 

Christ whispers from the Christmas-tree, 

This is my day, remember me ! 

What says the candle that doth burn ? 
Toward light may all thy footsteps turn. 
What say the good gifts on the tree? 
See what my love hath done for thee ; 

Be kind and good, little earth-child. 
Be like to Jesus, gentle, mild ; 
The shining berries of the haw. 
They have a word for thee also. 



THISTLEDOUN. 147 

Also each glittering ornament 
Which to the Christmas-tree is lent, 
These are the pleasures, without harm. 
That lends life loveliness and charm. 

And when the candles are burned low 
There is a word to thee also : 
All things must fail, however fair, 
However sweet and good they are. 

But if thy life was like the tree, 
Most lovely will its memory be. 
These are the words the Christmas-tree, 
With its green branches, brings to thee. 



THISTLEDO\VN, 



,^^HlSTLEDOWN. thisdedown, 
^^^^ Fluttering idly through the town, 
^ ' Prophet of the waning year, 
Good day to you and good cheer ! 
You are like the tolling bell, 
You are like the solemn knell 
In the history you tell. 
From your husk so dry and brown, 
Pilgrims, you invade the town ; 



I4S TH ISTL E D on N . 

Idly to and fro, whidier do you go ? 

Don't you know the sleet and snow 

And the Autumn winds that blow 

Will wilt you so, will pelt you so, 

That your very dearest dear 

Best beloved oroldfinch, near 

Neighbor to you all the year, 

Will not know you, shrunken so, 

Collapsed, fallen very low ? 

In your field with mullein stalks, 

Be content to take your walks ; 

You are too ambitious far, 

Tiny little wanderer. 

From the place where you abide 

You can never guess how wide 

Runs the atmospheric tide. 

Shaken, hither, thither tossed, 

Thistledown, you will be lost ! 

Don't go fluttering through this town 

In your silver-colored gown ; 

You are such an humble thing. 

Feeble little silken wing-, 

You will whirl along the air 

Like a poor adventurer. 

Thistledown, unfitted quite 

Are you for aerial flight ; 

You are only fit to line 



THISTLEDOWN. 149 

Birds' nest with your satin fine. 
Since the Autumn days are hazy 
Thistledown is growing crazy. 
Much of Hght aerial grace 
In your pretty aimless chase 
After what, Argonaut? 
Have you heard prophetic words 
From the multitude of birds ? 
Look and wish and wish again, 
Little thistledown, in vain. 
You will never dare to try 
Wings with children of the sky. 
They would laugh to see you fly, 
Thistledown, so don't you try 1" 

"Why I go and where I go. 
That is what I do not know. 
The will that launched me in the air. 
And bade me for the flight prepare, 
Has the thistledown in care. 
For this flight my pinions grew 
And my silver garments new. 
If my way lie through the town 
There will float the thistledown ; 
If beyond the pine tree's top 
Wherefore should I elsewhere stop ? 
Anywhere, through earth or air, 



T50 THISTLEDOWN. 

Thistledown has not a care. 
. I may fly to far Canary, 
Or sow seed on the Sahara; 
Launched upon my fine balloon 
I may journey to the moon, 
Don't you see 'tis naught to me 
Where my resting-place may be ? 
I am flutteringf in the sun 
Till my duty here be done. 
Quite assured that, where I drop, 
There will spring a thistle's crop." 

" Litde fleet, airy fleet, 
Nature's gracious ways are sweet, 
Life and death together meet. 
Death doth make all life complete. 
Take the freedom of the town, 
Little pilgrim thistledown." 




^p 


E 


^M 


E 




1 




^ 



AUTUMN. 




HE grains are gathered to the barn, 
The weeds hang ripe by pool and tarn ; 
Within the grape the royal blood 

Is ripening in a crimson flood. 

The toil is over ; my desire 

Is now to light a splendid fire ; 

Upon my funeral pyre to spread, 

I'll choose the yellow leaves and red ; 

To gather in the shining leaves, 

I will, while Mother Nature grieves. 



Beneath the trees, like flowery rain. 
The leaves have fallen without pain ; 
O'er many a gentler flower's grave 
The golden rod her wand doth wave, 
And everlasting's pale white flowers. 
Fit flame for Autumn's waning hours, 
With sad and widowed aster will 
I burn in purple cap and frill ; 
The burning sumac, golden red, 
As Moses' bush of flame I'll wed, 

151 



152 A UTUMN. 

And braid it widi the pink'buckwheat 
And berries of the bittersweet ; 
With spice bush, sassafras and fir, 
And gum drops, sweet as wine or myrrh^ 
They all shall burn, and moldering turn 
To cold gray ashes for an urn. 

The wheat with which my hair I bind, 

Its way into the fire shall find ; 

Witch-hazel and the chestnut's leaf. 

The corn's husk and the nut's dry sheaf, 

I throw them all into my fire ; 

The year's fine fire of rose and brier, 

With all the glories of my name. 

And Autumn's garniture of flame ; 

And as my fires rise to the sky, 

I, the immortal, seem to die, 

For quickly shall the fires efface 

Each line of beauty from my face. 

Yet, when the bare boughs touch the sky. 

Remember Autumn did not die. 

For with a coming harvest moon 

Shall come the Autumn afternoon. 



I gather for my beauty's bed 
The shining haws of roses red, 
And from the secret mountain pass 
The flaming boughs of sassafras. 



AUTUMN. 153 

To gather of her berries bright 
The mountain ash doth me invite, 
The apples of the golden haw, 
The golden oats' fine golden straw. 

Barley and rye and pink buckwheat, 
The fine flame of the bittersweet, 
The kingly corn's sere burnished sheaf 
The maple's shining yellow leaf. 

The withered aster in her frill 
Of purple and dry grasses shrill. 
With weeping sedges that lament 
The Autumn's gusty tournament. 

I bind my brow with ripened wheat. 
On withered roses set my feet, 
I gather all to build my pyre, 
I gather all to light my fire. 

Such tapestries were never spread 
On any earthly monarch's bed, 
These all shall burn and mouldering turn 
To cold gray ashes for my urn. 

I seize each leaf that fluttering flies 

Like a fair bird through lambent skies, 
II 



154 AUTUMN. 

Beech, oak and elm they each do send 
Tokens to me as friend to friend. 

Having no need of pattern seed, 
I burn ahke the flower and weed ; 
They all shall go to make my fire, 
The year's fine fire of rose and briar. 

The tendrils of the swaying vine 
Russet and yellow all are mine, 
And when my bed is fully decked 
With all the hues of Autumn flecked, 

Then I with them will seem to die 
And close the Season's history ; 
And yet remember in my urn 
There is a germ that did not burn. 

And I will surely bring the moons 
To other harvest afternoons ; 
And you will see me rise again 
Like rootlets sprouting after rain. 

Were all forms lost I could as fair 
Restore from sun and dew and air, 
For in my urn of dust did lie 
The germ of Immortality. 



AUTUMN. • 155 

And in thy breast there is the same 
Aspiring and undying flame ; 
And were thy mortal fabric lost, 
Thy particles to chaos tossed, 

Still life could weave thy form anew, 
Thy scattered particles renew 
That power which made thy life to be 
Assures its Immortality. 



Let fall your tear 

Upon her bier. 
Radiant in Tyrian dyes, 
She shames man's agonies 
Roses bloom on her cheek. 
She dared grim Death to break 
Lances with her in a gay tournament, 

And in her languishment 

Was full of blandishment. 
Her beauty's dress is scarlet mixed with gold, 
With dusky purple edge and purple fold. 
Leaves in millions, red vermilions 
Some like amber-hued papilions 
Which the butterflies unfold, 
With each inner fold 
Of darker, duskier gold. 
Keep a waltz about her head, 



156 



WIL D VINE , 



And a dance about her bed, 

And thus in state she lies 

And like a sovereign dies ; 

With the gathered glories of the year 

And scarce a tear to stain her royal bier» 



^A^ILD VINE. 




HE stole away : 

And left the enclosure, the garden gay, 
The graceful bunches of lilies trim, 

A wanderer seeking the moorlands dim. 

And silently crept through the garden gate. 

Discoverer seeking a larger estate. 

The spray of her tendrils she stretched to fall 

On the other side of the garden wall. 

As she passed she sang, "Oh, sunbeams fair! 

I go where thy liberal measures are, 
Where flowers, too rare 

For the cultured garden's showy glare. 

In wild and sweet abundance stand ; 

I am going forth to a broader land. 

For I feel the longing within my soul 

For a life that knoweth no control. 
I will taste Heaven's dew 

Under infinite arches of azure blue. 



WILD VINE. 157 

Adieu, blue bell, 

Trim flowers, farewell." 

By waysides gray 
The fugitive flower did make her way, 
Discoursing sometimes with a thistle's head, 
And sometimes stealthily drawing her thread 
"Throuofh tanorles and meadows of clover red, 
To set her roots in a broader place, 
To number herself with an older race : 
A statlier, uncultured, in free wide space ; 
To touch the spray of the bending briar, 
To warm herself in the wild rose's fire : 
This was the wandering vine's desire. 

So she shook her bells to each Summer breeze, 
Making her companionship with these. 
She wandered away, where, cool and gray, 
And sullen the heart of the moorlands lay, 
'Girt with the shadow of moisture alway. 
She crept to haunts where copious dew 
Ever filtered the woodlands through, 

Where it lay like showers 
In diamond drops over living flowers. 
Broader and deeper her tendrils to twine, 
She lost the look of a garden vine, 
She gathered a largeness of soul divine. 



158 WILD VINE, 

As, sturdy and strong, 

She crept along. 
Having forgotten the garden quite 
She opened her heart to dew and hght r 
Nor feared she the night, 
Traversing the meadows by lanterns of gold,. 
Fearing not heat nor shrinking from cold, 

Lawgiver herself. 

This vine was an elf, 
She founded an empire that still does endure^ 

Whose roots are set sure. 

Broad, deep and secure. 
In fissures of mountain, on precipice steep. 
In meadows, by great rivers deep. 
Issuing forth from the garden's trim portal 
She relinquished the mortal, 
Laying hold of the life everlasting. 




FARMER HA^VTHORNE. 



''^AVID HAWTHORNE was an old farmer 
'^m Wj^o knew, by the tassels on the wild alder. 
When spring, with a knot of green on her 
shoulder, 
The hedgerows went tripping between. 

Hailing the blue bird's wing with delight, 

Herald that winter glides out of sight, 

He made himself ready for work with a might, 

Whetting old blades. 
Threatening weeds with vigorous raids. 

As days grew longer 
Farmer Hawthorne was also so strono- 
That no Summer day, however long, 

Could make him stronger. 



Axes, scythes, rakes, hoes and harrows. 
Were brought out from winter cover. 

For farmer Hawthorne welcomed work 
As maiden welcomes her lover. 

One odd custom had David Hawthorne, 



159 



i6o FARMER HAWTHORNE. 

To pray in all dull weather, 
And work like a giant when the spring-time 

Purpled the soft wild heather, 
When flocks of birds floated up together 
From the South in the fine warm weather, 

Thus Farmer Hawthorne communed with himself, 

" When I can work I must ; 
There are long, dark days of weeping and praying, 
When the wheat is threatened with rust. 
When the baleful breath of sultry July 
Comes freighted with mildew, weevil and fly, 
And since I cannot do both together, 
I must work when I can and pray in dull weather." 

So he girded himself for his duty, 
And wrought in the sweet soft soil, 
Forgetful of self with the beauty 

Of a devotion, 

Such was our notion, 
And the wheat heads filled 
Where the farmer tilled, 
Fuller, rounder and yellower. 
And the earth where he wrought was mellower, 
Than where riotous Tom, Harry or Joe 
Only snubbed Mother Earth with a hoe. 



FARMER HAWTHORNE. i6i 

Knee-deep through clover, 

Whose flower ran over, 

With honeyed bloom 

And choice perfume, 

Walked David Hawthorne ; 

Through tassels of corn 

And prairies of wheat, 

And orchards as sweet 
As rose vales where houris trip by on light feet. 

Wherever walked he 

Her food found the bee, 
Soft white clover, blooming buckwheat, 
Plenty of blossoms, plenty to eat. 

Plenty and peace sat at his hearthstone 

With happy faced-ease, 
His toil and patience 

Crowned his life with thee. 
Songs of robins, murmur of bees, 
Whisper of winds breathing low through the trees, 
Gurgle of spring were music to him. 
Listening to them his eyes grew dim. 

In Winter the farmer sometimes would read 

Stories of cattle, vineyards or steed^ 

Out. of his Bible or almanac, 

Of these last he had a fifty year's stack. 



i62 FARMER HAWTHORNE. 

With his gray head bent, 
On his lesson intent, 
The farmer would say 
In his queer quaint way — 
"Them old men of Judeer, 
That's my ideer, 
Had amasin' luck with cattle and land, 
And ways of farmin' I don't understand." 

When the fall weather 

Had ripened the heather, 

Could you but have seen 

The ricks of barley, wheat and corn, 

Glowing like gold ablaze in the morn, 

Atop of which rode home farmer Hawthorne,. 

Triumphant into his corn-house or barn, 

'Twould have made your heart warm. 

For his round honest face 

Was aglow with the beauty 

Of well-performed duty, 

And the way he said grace 

Through those harvesting days 

Was, " forty bushels of wheat to the acre," 

A grace fit for parson, hermit or quaker. 

Each in its fashion, the honest heart- prays. 
When the farmer's time came 



FARMER HA WTHORNE. 163 

He slept his last sleep as sweetly and well 
As monks who have prayed in the cloister, 
Or nuns in the sound of its bell. 

Folding- his strong brown hands together, 

He talked of fair weather. 
Of jeweled birds, each with jeweled feather^ 
Of bullocks, leviathans, goats and rams. 
Of holy doves and of snow-white lambs. 

And when the time came, 

Waded through the river, 
The dark, mysterious, unknown river, 

Without death's shiver, 
Talking of timothy, oats and clover 

That he saw over 
Waving upon the other side. 
If this be death. Farmer Hawthorne died. 
But I have no doubt where the Muscadine 
Drinks of the sun he will yet be seen 
In vineyards sunny and vineyards green 

Where our Lord hath been. 
For what would David Hawthorne do 
When days are sunny and skies are blue 
Without some vine or vineyard to dress 
Or ripening head of wheat to caress ? • 

And I expect on some Summer morn 
Again to behold old farmer Hawthorne 



i64 EPICURE. 

On some Aldebaran or Sirius high, 
Hidden away in a Summer sky, 
Or where the beautiful Pleiades 
Swarm like a cluster of golden bees, 
Or where Andromeda uncurls her hair 
In the light of a heavenly morning fair, 

In some far nook of creation 

On his plantation. 
Where sweet wines run in a golden sun, 
Nor blight draws near wheat in the ear, 
Hid in clover and blossoming thyme 

In some heavenly clime, 
Since labor is worship, since labor is prayer, 
We may be sure that happy and fair 
Farmer Hawthorne is working somewhere. 



EPICURE. 




AM sorry, I am sorry 

For this temple frail and fair, 
Painted like a lily rare ; 
Built of earth and fire and air. 
I am sorry, I am sorry 
That a painted thing so rare. 
Celestial in its brightness, 



EPICURE . 165 

And bird-like in its lightness, 
After all these years of care, 
Fairy changeling of the sky, 
Should fade, and droop, and die. 

Therefore now this mansion fair 

Shall have jewels for its hair. 

Topaz burning in the sun, 

Opals mystical with flaming tongue. 

Pearls from out the deep sea wrung, 

Essences of cinnamon, 

Tinctures of the rose from far-off places, 

Snoods and silken veils and laces 

Woven in the air-looms of the Graces, 

Shawls of rainbow-hued Cashmere, 

Growing slowly through the length'ning year; 

Airy fabrics for the Summer's heat. 

Cosdy sandals for its feet, 

Sweet or sour as it likes to eat. 

Purple silks for winter wear, 

Wrappings of the Polar bear 

Or other beast that hath the warmest fur, 

Ermine, sable, mnk or miniver ; 

Down plucked from the eider's breast, 

Feathers from the peacock's crest, 

All that earth holds rarest and the best. 

Whether from the East or from the West. 



i66 EPICURE. 

I shall have thee go in state, 
Feed thee on the daintiest meat, 
Strawberries or honey sweet, 
That the bees know how to find, 
All amber clear refined, 
In pilf'ring, stealthy ways, 
And the wines of sunny vintages. 

Since thou hast but one inheritance 

And must soon go hence, 

You must not fret for paltry pounds or pence, 

Nor shiver with the winter's cold, 

Nor wear rags or garments old, 

Neither faint at Summer's heat ; 

As thou hast but one estate, 

(And the soul will leave thee desolate). 

Thou shalt live in kingly state 

And the world shall on thee wait. 

But a high-born gipsy is the soul, 

It would turn its wings upon the whole 

Splendor of the world, and the vine, 

Full of sacramental wine. 

Would fill all its needs divine. 

And it does not care if the poor body 

Be clothed in velvet or in shoddy. 

Neither does it care for any body. 



EPICURE. 167 

This mansion must have all it needs, 

And my heart is torn and bleeds, 

Thinking that six feet of clay 

And a casket, ashen gray, 

And a snowy winding sheet 

From the eyelids to the feet 

Are all that it may have 

In the melancholy grave, 

And that the Summer's suns, 

In days when thou art gone, 

Shall tint up the luscious clusters one by one 

Of those grapes that lean against the sun. 

That strawberries grow sweet 

But not for thee to eat. 

That the panorama of the sky 

Red and gold shall glisten by ; 

Thou seeing nothing with dull closed eye. 

These things stab my heart and make me cry. 

I charge thee, therefore, while thou stayest, 
Live thou the best and be the gayest. 




THK MUSE. 




HE muse is dead, the heavenly muse. 
"What died she of, Apollo?" 
" She died of the hexameters 
And sounding measures hollow, 
She died of being so confined, 
So measured^ syllabled, and lined. 

"Come, maiden, to her funeral 
And cheer us with your sorrow." 

"Yes, we will come and shed our tear 
O'er the celestial maiden's bier, 
When shall we come, Apollo ?" 

'■ At twelve o'clock to-morrow ; 

When on the dial of the night 

The brightest star the hour doth smite ; 

For then the high gods can come down. 

Each bright with an eternal crown. 

The arches of the monarch's way, 

The shining, star-paved galaxy ; 
1 68 



THE MUSE. 169 

Until that hour to-morrow day, 
Maiden, gather flowers and pray." 

"What shall we pray, Apollo? 
And for this high-born maid 
What flowers shall be braid? " 

" Canadian violets and fern, 
Sunflowers shall be the lamps we burn ; 
Also the water lilies urn ; 
Wild roses sweet and undefiled 
Gather for this celestial child." 

"What shall we wear, Apollo ? " 

''Oh wear of all thy heart's desire, 

The hues that burn in heaven's fire 

Upraise the lid 

Of colors that the gods have hid, 

Caskets the dearest hearts delight 

The treasures of celestial light ; 

Take from the glowing rainbow's arc, 

Take of the diamond's fiery spark, 

Ultramarine, old ocean's green, 

Carbuncle and opals' sheen, 

And colorings no man hath seen." 

" Pray tell us where, Apollo, 
Entombed this heavenly maid shall be, 



I70 THE MUSE. 

* 

That we may strew marsh-rosemary 
And weeping sprays of willow 
Above her maiden pillow." 

" Ah, poet, lover, friend so dear, 
Entombed our muse shall not be here; 
Her kinsmen shall her dust with them, 
With sceptre and with diadem, 
O'er that high pathway of the sky 
Bear the immortal who did die. 
Nor shall men see this pageantry 
Of midnight and the gods go by. 
Save the few loved ones who do pray 
For the sweet maiden borne away." 

" We come unto her funeral, 
And as we come lament we shall ; 
Fair maiden muse, we overstrew 
Thee with the sweetest things that grow, 
The spice-bush, sassafras, and rue, 
Incense we burn, beloved, for you. 

" Thy lamp, the sunflower, we set here. 
Thy sweet and pallid features near, 
And culled from many a love-lorn spot 
Are braids of sad foro-et-me-not. 
In purple tears above thy feet 
Weep the Canadian violets sweet ; 



THE MUSE, 171 

With water-lilies, fairest maid, 

Thy links of pale blonde hair we braid. 

''The nightingale has left her nest 
And hovers o'er thy place of rest, 
With some sad sense of loss possessed. 
And hark, ah, hark through midnight dark 
Has woke, to sing her song, the lark. 

*' Yes, we will pray, for prayer is meet, 
What shall we pray for thee. Muse sweet, 
Who did'st of rose and lilies eat? " 

"" Oh, pray that we may meet again 
Where music falls as Summer rain, 
Where song's pure fountain has its birth, 
And inspiration knows no dearth. 
Where the immortal sings the song 
That to the immortal doth belong 
Easily as doth float the note 
Out of the singing birds' soft throat." 

" Farewell, farewell, 

A long adieu, Apollo, 

Thy path we may not follow. 

Nor of its glories may we tell. 

Her kinsmen bear the cloth of gold, 

And in its dazzling sheen they fold 

The heavenly muse we loved of old." 




MOSS. 



ALF COUSIN to the feathery ferns 
That grow by many hills and burns ; 
The moss, an elfin creature wild, 

Is Nature's cherished fairy child. 

Habiliments she ever wears 
To hide a multitude of scars ; 
The signature and mystic seal 
Of losses she will not reveal. 

Outward she wears a budding vest 
Of rosebuds fragrant on her breast, 
Folding with care lest it should part 
And show the ashes of a heart. 



The velvet mosses on her wait, 

They are the royal robes of state, 

And well they know where they should creep 

To hide the rents and wrinkles deep. 

Moss spreads upon the olden roof, 

Year after year, a mystic woof; 

172 



MOSS. 173 

All crisp and bright, all cool and strong, 
She slowly creeps the roof along. 

Weaving in every yard the lore 
And legends of the days of yore, 
Along her silken threads do run 
Histories from the ages spun. 

Moss seemeth young, yet she is old, 
Moss looketh fresh, yet she is cold ; 
When first she came to earth she found 
Youth's fountain somewhere underground, 

Or in the upward rills of dew 
That flow the heavenly pathways through. 
The secret of that fount she keeps, 
And in its balm her roots she steeps. 

The moss is Nature's favorite child ; 
A sturdy creature, strong and wild. 
High up the mountain's furrowed side 
She dares to creep and to abide. 

Past oak or beech, past larch or fir, 
Where Mother Nature leadeth her, 
Up to the frozen Arctic Zone, 
She loves to grow and dwell alone. 



174 MOSS. 

No earthquake's shock, no winds that break 
The oak stems can her courage shake ; 
No foot that crushes to the dust, 
Can shake her confidence or trust. 

Perennial in emerald green, 
A link these Continents between, 
Half of the earth, half of the air, 
An elfin creature, strangely fair. 

The soft green moss hath overgrown 
The fissure of the furrowed stone, 
Earth hath no spot so bare and poor 
But moss can set her rootlet sure. 

In hidden sanctuaries lone, 
In fortresses to men unknown, 
Where not a tree its life can keep, 
The brave, strong mosses dare to creep^ 

Eternal youth, eternal age. 
These are the mosses heritaore ; 
She smiles at man's brief pilgrimage 
And views him as some ancient sage. 

The moth that flutters for an hour, 
The ephemeral radiance of a flower ; 



HEAD OF THE HOUSE. 175 

And as man's heart to ashes turns 
Moss write her runes on funeral urns. 

For moss does stay while men do go, 
For her perpetual summer's glow ; 
She is a friend who will not leave 
Thy tomb when others cease to grieve. 

For in eternal solitude 

She loveth best to weave and brood ; 

The sadness of forego tten tombs 

Suits best her noiseless, ancient looms. 



HEAD OF THE HOUSE. 




HO will be head of the old house 
When I from it am gone, 

And who will wear my coronet 
And have my ermines on ; 

Who, when warriors call, shall ride 
My old war-horse Don John ? 

Who will be head of the old house? 

I sometimes sigh to think ; 
They care not who the lord is here 



176 HEAD OF THE HOUSE. 

Who at my banquets drink ; 
The king is dead, or live the king, 
They heed not which they drink. 

Great deeds are more than kingly race, 
In mine, the two were wed ; 

I blush for no stain on the shield, 
For no dishonored head, 

Yet this old race of warriors 
Are resting with the dead. 

The last of this heroic race 

'Tis better far to be 
Than shrunken bloom or feeble bough 

To leave upon the tree ; 
My ancient and time-honored house 

Shall fail and die with me. 




THK FLITTING OF THK 
FLOVv^KRS. 




/rJ^ ALKING in my garden 
i^mS. On a fine September morning. 
With its silver-headed warden, 
The gardener old Johr, 
The blossoms all gave warning 
Of a wish to fly away. 

Stirred by a wild commotion, 
They all had the same notion 
To fly away together 
With the birds in the fine weather ; 
"And they shall not go before us," 
Sang all the flowers in chorus, 
" They all have on the feather 
Of their flight, from heather 
And from meadow — how they flock to- 
gether — 
Robin red, jenny wren, in holiday 
Apparel, golden birds and gray, 

And wings that sweep the sky 

177 



178 'FLITTING FLOWERS. 

From regions far away. 

No more gay coquetting, 
No more work, no more songs, not a nest. 
Let us go before the sun is setting, 
" For the birds," sang the blossoms, " know the best;'* 
"Yes, I have always noticed," sang all the flowers 

together. 
*' In the changing of the seasons that the gay birds 

know the best." 

Flocking from the North and East and West 

See the countless wings ! Redbreast 

Sits upon his apple-tree and sings 

Of endless apple-bloom and endless Springs. 

And the saucy blackbird sings 

With flutter of a flock of raven wings : 

"There's a Heaven for the blackbirds too ! " 

"I don't know," sighs Robin, "can such news be 

true ? 
Can there be a Paradise for naughty birds like you. 
And when the others go must you go too ? " 
" Yes," their saucy concert rings, 
"We will take Heaven with our win^s. 
Selfish, ugly bird, to think the Heaven blue 
For robins and their babies only grew ! " 

" I have often noticed," said the aster, 

• 

** That in the serenest weather, 



FLITTING FLOWERS. 179 

When the maple boughs against the sky 

Lie Hke gold, that the jeweled birds begin to fly ; 

Yellower the maples grow, birds wings fly the faster^. 

Jeweled wing and jeweled feather ! 

Ah, the gay birds, let us go together." 

So old that he could look no older, 

With a spade upon his shoulder, 

Walked the aged guardian, singing, 

Softly down the garden walks. 

Of a land where ever springing 

Fadeless on their stalks 

Stand the flowers. " How he talks," 

Sang together the gay hollyhocks, 
And the fadeless asters and the other flowers 
♦Sang in concert, " let us flil and find these bowers ; "" 

For they had caught the mention, 

Without old John's intendon, 

Of a land of immortality. 

As he sang it in his hymn 

At morn or evening dim, 

And his sweet song set them crazy — 

Verbena, cypress, daisy, 

Were wild to fly away 

As sang the old man gray. 

His hair was like the lilies 

All wax-white in its bloom 



iSc FLITTING FLOWERS. 

His cheeks were like the peaches 

On the topmost bough that reaches 

To the sky. 

Showing wonderful carnation, 

For John, since his creation, 

Had lived among the flowers. 

Telling time by discs of posies 

And seasons by the roses, 

Arranging all his duties 

By chronometers of bloom ; 

Past the beds of rare perfume 

His spade and hoe he carried 

In perpetual revolution. 

And no worthless, rude weed tarried ; 

They were past old John's solution 

And noxious to his creed ; 

For he thoudit the elect seed 

Of rose or mignonette 

Or other flowers as fair 

Alone to be entitled 

To dew and sun and air ; 

And the humble weed untitled 

He would let it live nowhere. 

Then a radiant morning-glory 
Who had told her charming story, 
How they mix the purple, blue 



FLITTING FLOWERS. i8r 

And carnation all the Summer through, 
Whispered, " Wait a moment, old man, linger, 

I have something I would say, 

I wish to fly away. 

Ah now did you expect it. 

Do you see I have a hectic 

And a sort of good-by look, 

And yellowness about my root. 

Uo you really now old man ? 

Thou too art growing wan 

And thy well worn spade 

And thy rake and hoe 

Must soon away be laid ; 
Come to us, then, old man, come to us if you can." 

The old man answered, sighing, 

" I also with the flying 

Of the birds must go, and with the flitting 

Of the blossoms it is fitting 
That the gardener, old and feeble, should go too. 
And all of us together — blue. 
Gold, raven jackets, altogether ; 
Jeweled birds with jeweled feather, 
Robin redbreast, e're the weather 
Change — shall go with the troups of flowers. 
Silken, softer than the bosoms 
Of the birds, and with tread far softer 
Than the breath of Ariel, 



iS2 THE BRIDE 



Bright Laburnum and Azalea pale ; 
Laying down my spade, 
With folded hands upon my breast, 
I will follow after all the rest." 



THE BRIDE. 



[RIED roses, grass, and sweet japonica 
'^^^ That must have grraced some summer far 

away. 
A faded portrait and a lock of hair, 
A precious ring that her lost lover used to wear; 

A dress of satin like a moonlit wave, 
Old yellow laces wrought by hands the grave' 
Had clasped, sweet poems of frail laces 
Haunted with a loveliness of strange lost faces, 

As in her saint-like beauty she did lie. 

These were her dower and drapery. 

And to death's chilly country cold and gray 

Of dower and wealth enough they were to take away. 





SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 



J\m ^ dreams the Christmas lights in cheerful 

^W^ 1 T 

m€l homes 1 see, 

Do Christians think of me, and of my lost 
ships three ? 
Would through the pealing- hymns the organ's tone 
Some sigh might breath of him lost, snowbound and 
alone ! 

My countrymen so brave, my peril could they dream, 
Would fly to my relief on wings of fire and steam. 
But none may tell our tale, and we shall see no 

more. 
Our sweet fair Island of the sea,— loved England's 

shore. 

There is no sound of life, the storm-bound doors 

between 
Us tight ice-bolted stand, and the sweet zones of 

green. 
Even the poor snow huts have dropped a little 

down, 

Nearer the sunny lands the polar birds have flown, 

183 



« 
x84 S/R JOHN FRANKLIN. 

No reindeer lichen grows, there is no sun to greet, 
Frozen in ice each ship that makes our little fleet. 
Grim rules the Ice-king, all the frozen earth and air, 
Our hearts within our breasts are lead, dumb with 
despair. 

Gone, gone at last all hope, no fire, no bread, no 

seal. 
Through the dread Arctic night at last death doth 

his face reveal ; 
But when man cometh to life's end let us thank 

God 
The ice-drift is as soft as velvet daisied sod. 

My gentle lady tell by chart and compass well 
Studied, we come to know the tropic's ruddy glow, 
Lies not more near to Heaven than drifts of Arctic 

snow ; 
All ways that lead us home are short howe'er they 

wind and go. 

The gentle lady's heart ere this has ceased to beat, 
In some serener land upon some golden street ; 
I hope that long ere this her weary, wandering feet 
Have chanced her lover and her worshiped lord to 
meet. 



THE CAT BIRDS. 185 

Bright shines athwart the air that shrouds the frosty 

poles 
His name all deathless fair, and as the old world 

rolls 
Still crushing in its course a thousand loves, 
Her touching story lasting and immortal proves. 



THK CAT-BIRDS, 




pWO cat-birds in the flush of the spring, 

Straightway to build them a nest did begin. 
Any one would have said that the cares of 
a State 
Were hidden beneath those smooth feathers of slate. 
Soon from out of the East and out of the West 
The two brought together the fragments of nest ; 
Dry bits of the grapevine and pieces of thread 
In the forks of the elm tree quickly were spread. 

With bedroom and kitchen and parlor in one, 
Their building was finished, their mansion was done, 
And then madam cat-bird, with speckled eggs four. 
Her small mansion furnished, just four and no more, 
And then for some days she sat mute and demure 
In her house in the air, serene and secure 

13 



i86 THE CAT BIRDS. 

While her singing, diligent, slate-colored mate 
Brought delicate morsels of bugs which she ate. 

But oh, in the shortest of days and of weeks. 
Round the brim of the nest grew four little beaks^ 
And then, happy days, the cat-birds together 
Fed their young ones through sunshiny weather. 
And almost before one could think or could say 
It was time the young ones were up and away. 
And the slate-colored birds, lovers together, 
Floated away in the sunshiny weather. 

For leaving behind them the house and its care, 
They swam through the azure, gay tenants of air; 
Their mansion so warm, so snug and so small 
Never did weary with taxes at all. 
And they left it rent free in its primitive state, 
To show how a bird values landed estate. 
Then we said to ourselves, a house in the sky 
Is better than palaces men raise so high. 

With basements and kitchen, attic and all. 
Apartments of chamber, parlor and hall. 
The broods of the birds grow up like the flowers. 
The children of men attain not their powers 
Of body and mind till frost has descended, 
And for the parents the springtime is ended. 
And no time remains for old lovers, together. 
To wander away through the sunshiny weather. 



THK SOLDIER. 



^ SOLDIER when the war was done 
'^}f Slept with his face turned toward the sun, 

His sergeant, weary and with grim 
Of blood and sweat, bent over him. 

And by his captain's side he knelt, 
Unloosed the sleeping captain's belt, 

And to the mute breast bent his ear 
Intent some stifled throb to hear ; 

Gazed on the grave, majestic face, 
Strange with a new, a nameless grace, 

And sighed, " This man hath thro' the wars 
Fought, yet he bears no wounds or scars. 

•' Now, when the routed army flies. 

He turns him toward the sun and dies." 

But when they came to lay him in 

His robes of royal fashioning, 

187 



i88 IT IS FINISHED. 

They found him pinched and wan and thin, 
As one who long bore death within ; 

And on his breast were scars so deep 
The stoutest turned away to weep. 

"Alas! he suffered and he died, 
Only he made no sign." they cried. 

And still this warrior did keep 
Silence, nor moved his lips to speak. 

Seeming, with a superb disdain. 
Able to die but not complain. 



IT IS FINISHED." 




HO sighs when the toil is done ? 

Who weeps when the care is over ? 
Man, man only, under the sun ! 

Nature with joy runs over, 
Smiles from the flowers, glows from the corn, 
Radiant at sunset, radiant at morn, 
Singing, rejoicing the year is done ; 

And dresses herself in her best, 
And goes^ at last, lo her royal rest 



MY BIRD. 189 

Like the Phoenix, with flaming eyes and crest, 
Decked with glory from head to breast ; 
So man, at the close of his life's long year. 
As Jesus went to His sepulchre. 
Should go, not looking to tarry there. 

The peach lets go of its stem. 

Long days having fed on the sun, 

The head of the wheat, like a diadem, 
Is stored when the harvests are done, 

But man, man only, seems not to know 

When his life is ripe, though the Winter's snow 

Glitters all coldly above his brow. 



MY BIRD. 



^^^6 NOT hide thy head, my bird, 
^^^ In the silken hood of thy wing. 
The hours may be weary. 
The day may be dreary — 
More need for the singers to sing. 
When every sad hour as it hurrieth on 
Seems darker than those that before it have gone. 

Sing of tropical days that are gone, 
Of lilies that grew near the Sun ; 



190 



LATE VIOLET 



If life be too dreary, 

The hours be too weary, 
Let us think of the days that are flown ; 
Let us warm by the embers where once a fire shone, 
Or sing o'er the ashes whose embers are gone 

Thy saddest or sweetest, my bird, 
It is the last song we will sing. 
Our last day together, 
Why heed we the weather — 
The time is so short, let us sing 
Throuo-h all the long night for the hearts that are 

breaking, 
Throuo-h all the dark day for the hearts that are 
achingr. 



LATE VIOLET. 




T blossomed on a grave, 

This little flower with golden eye ; 
It bent as the wild wind swept by. 
Then looked above to azure sky 
From off the moss-pfrown orave. 



t>' 



The grasses even were dead. 

And all the tribes of summer flowers 



LATE VIOLET. 



191 



The blushinor gracious rose had fled ; 
Yet this frail watcher by this bed 
So lowly, still watched on. 

Even a flake was tossed 

Of shrill November's icy sleet, 

Her shining face across, 

And earth did naught but mourn her loss, 

Her lost companionship. 

With bird and flower and sedo-e, 
In wailino^ wind and tossing- leaf 
Thus she expressed her grief, 
Her shrinking from the icy edge 
Of chill December's breath. 

How was it that the flower 
Enough of Summer heat could find 
The secrets of her life to bind, 
In their tri-colored bond, 
Her unity of light and shade, 

Her golden and empurpled braid 
To wear, all undismayed ? 
It seemed that Mother Nature sought 
Sentinel for this dreary spot 
Whose hope should falter not. 



192 IMMORTELLE. 

A candle of the waning year 

To burn beside the mouldering bier 

The hearts of men to cheer, 

As if life's dust had struck a spark 

Of triumph o'er its tomb so dark. 



IMMORTELLK. 




pHOU lingerest here all dry and sere, 
By meadow, copse, and hillside drear^ 
Thou tarriest in thy place alone 
While all thy sister flowers are flown. 

Who cares for thee, thou pale and cold r 
Who loves thee faded flower, and old ? 
I would not tarry here to see 
The frost and snow if I were thee. 

Thou can'st not die ! 'tis well to sigh 
For thine own immortality. 
Each summer flower has gone its way^ 
But thou, the immortal one must stay. 







HOW^ LONG, O LORD OF HOSTS, 
HOV/ LONG? 




HERE seems to fall from each mountain peak^ 
To rise from the troubled ocean's deep, 
From desert sands of olden lands, 
The solemn chant of the martyrs' cry — 
" How long, O Lord of Hosts, Most High?" 
From winds as they gather together and meet 
In hedges and by-ways of the street ; 
From tempest that flies with outstretched wings,. 
To the sweetest Summer air that sings 

Over the beds of roses sweet, 
" How long, O Lord of Hosts, shall we lie 
Unavenged of Thee ?" the martyrs cry. 

No land but has drunk of the martyrs' blood; 
Oh the terrible, awful flood 
That shall make the very earth to shake. 
And the stoutest hearts of men to quake; 
When inquisition for blood is made 
Terrible day that makes earth afraid. 
'' How long, O Lord of Hosts, shall it be 
That Thy martyrs sleep forgotten of Thee?" 

195 



194 HOW LONG, O LORD OF HOSTS? 

Out of the cloud a sweet voice fell — 

" Sleep yet a little, beloved, rest well ; 

I do not forget the blood of my heart 

The life of my life ; I will not part 

With a drop of the treasure shed for me ; 

Costly the day of reckoning- shall be. 

Earth shall yield again from her inmost deep 

The jewels I gave to her to keep, 

From frosty zones of mountains lone, 

From desert and waste wherever strewn. 

Your dust shall rise ; God knows His own. 

I will call to the depths of the troubled sea 

Till they answer me, 
I will so avenge that ye shall cry, 
Stay the sword of thy vengeance, God Most High." 

So the martyrs turned in their graves and slept 

Till the chimes of a thousand years were tolled, 

Summer's heat and Winter's cold 

Labored together above the mould, 

That like ermines shrouded them fold on fold. 

As the hands on the dial of centuries crept, 

Morning and evening over them wept, 

Over their pillows singing birds slept ; 

The rose steeped her roots in the Summer rain, 

And dropped there her blossom again and again. 

Their pillows were fringed with the russet and gold 



HOW LONG, O LORD OF HOSTS? 195 

Of mosses whose years were not numbered or told;, 
And their dust seemed transposed 
Slowly into the moss and the rose. 

They waked again, and again they cried — - 

*' Are thy martyrs dead who should have died?" 

*' Not yet," from the cloud the sweet voice sighed; 

" But the time and year are drawing near, 

The last of my martyrs will soon appear." 

The last of Thy martyrs ! O God, to know 

That Thy loveliest have perished so ; 

Burned, beheaded, crucified, 

Dead with thee as Thou hast died. 

Earth was not worth the crimson flood 

Of our crucified Lord's and the martyrs' blood. 

They cried and cried, with one accord, 

Hasten the time, O conquering Lord. 

They cried as valiant soldiers cry, 

Till it struck the ear of the Lord Most High, 

" Thou hast promised to us the golden year, 

That shall rise as a star in the heaven clear. 

The dust of the agred earth is red 

With the blood of Thy martyrs who are dead ; 

And the Church is sprinkled in fiery chrism 

Of martyred blood for its baptism." 

Out of the riven cloud there came 
The shout of an army, fire, and flame ; 



196 MEADOW LILY. 

And the Captain cried to his warriors slain, 
" Rest not in your graves, beloved, again 
The terrible year of God's vengeance is here. 
And the dawn of eternal day is near." 



MEADOW LILY. 




^OW very fair she sits a queen. 

Close clasped the spears of grass between. 
These be her subjects, with the bird 
Whose passage hath the grass blades stirred. 
She is embrowned with bistre spot, 
Tanned with the living sunshine hot. 
Thirsting, she drinks the sultry heat 
Of August, as a nectar sweet. 
Her vestments from the rainbow drawn 
To greet the sun she putteth on ; 
The gardens of the Lord are hers. 
The meadows and the shade of firs ; 
She flourishes on no man's land. 
Nor tended is by human hand. 
In solitude, hid from the world, 
Alone she hath her flowers unfurled, 
Having the grace to know her place. 
She keeps alive her ancient race. 



THRUSHES. 




WEDDING flight, sing birds and bees, 
And beat time, dancing boughs of trees, 
My Httle mate, my bonnie bride, 

I feel in you a lover's pride. 

Our wedding journey we will take 
O'er jungles overgrown with brake ; 
On swift light wings will we fly through 
These crystal flakes of morning dew. 

Our wedding breakfast we will eat 
Of tender birch buds fresh and sweet. 
Dear bride we need no railway train, 
We do not heed the April rain. 

For all these early showers that fall 
My bride's dress will not soil at all, 
'Tis of such downy satin fine, 
With brilliant sheen and silver shine. 

There is a spot secluded, new 

Created, fresh for me and you, 

197 



198 THRUSHES. 

Of dogwood vine or thorn we may 
Choose our snug home without delay. 

This little twig: I think will do 
To hang our nest on, what think you ? 
Ah, yes, it hangs secure and high, 
And to the mosses it is nigh. 

Here cranberries will ripeii red 
Near to our homestead and our bed, 
And this will lighten much the care 
Fathers of families must bear. 

Now let us look about and see 
What neighbors have we near our tree. 
Goldfinches, yes, the pretty things 
That carry sunshine on their wings. 

Linnets, my dear, all linnets are 
Fit company for one so fair, 
But those cat birds will never do 
To call, my little bride, on you. 

Look in the moss, see there doth sit 
A pleasant snipe with little wit ; 
My little birdie do you know 
I do not like our neighbor crow ? 



R OSES. 



199 



I cannot see, by sun or moon, 
How earth needs whipporwill or loon, 
Be wise my love, and have a care 
Never to gossip with this pair. 

We lead the singing wildwood choir. 

We pitched the tune from our tree's spire. 

Therefore must we associate 

With feathered friends of like estate. 

The friends we visit all must be 

A singing goodly company, 

We have a character to keep, 

Hark, don't you hear a weak peep, peep ? 



ROSKS. 



" They serve who only stand and wait." 




STAND and wait. 
I wait by morning's opening gate, 
I wait for sunset's golden state, 
In the night as in the day, 
I watch and wait in steadfast way ; 
My roots are knitted in the dust. 
Yet Heaven gave to me a trust : 
My work and office is to wait. 



R OSES. 

And to translate 
The splenders of the Infinite 
Into a roses little bloom, 
Into color and perfume. 

I gather of the living soul 
To write it in a flowery scroll ; 
A fragment of that living mind. 
Read in my heart and you shall find, 
Find bright a golden sun disc there, 
With golden stamens spangled fair, 
For I reflect the image high 
Of Him whose home is in the sky. 

I am blest who only wait, 
Silent by morning's opening gate, 
Silent in evening's sunset state. 
The sun I love does crown my head. 
This love does make my blush so red ; 
And, sweet and cool, the evening dew 
Refreshes all my life anew. 
I love to stand and watch and wait, 
For, as I wait, I give again 
The love I drew from sun and rain. 

Therefore I wait, 
Early or late 
To see Him as he draweth near ; 



STRING. 20I 

He is in Heaven and I am here, 
I, the rose, am His sentinel 
And fond interpreter as well. 
My office is to watch and wait 
And to give love by Heaven's gate. 
The coming in of Heaven's King, 
The birds their welcoming 
Give to Him as they sing, 

But I being dumb 

To my King come 

In incenses outpoured, 

Without a spoken word. 



STRING. 




HIS is the story of a string 

Ihat bound an English sparrow's wing. 

Some wind had blown it on a tree ; 
One end was fast and one was free. 

You would not credit such a thing ; 
These birds are prone to quarreling. 

And often fight, so it is said, 

Till one and sometimes both are dead. 



202 STRING. 

Strangest of all, it is the wife 
Of sparrow that occasions strife. 

Yet Helen only is intent 
Somewhere beneath the firmament 

To hang her little bit of thatch, 
Her house without a roof or latch. 

But sparrows are as bad as men ; 
Two loved a little russet wren. 

And^so they fought until one fell ; 
It is a sorry tale to tell. 

But lo, and lo, the conquering 
Was tangled in this silken string. 

And there poor sparrow dangling high 
In air, was left alone to die. 

But now the vanquished bird appears, 
Moved by the sad complaint he hears, 

And rising up essays to loose 
The captive from the silken noose. 

And this is all about the string 

That caught an English sparrow's wing. 




FLO^^^KR AND SPRING. 




-,T the mountain top we came across 
#' A clear, cold spring in a bed of moss, 
That bubbled up 
From a pebbly cup. 
In the moss a little flower grew sweet ; 
It bent so low that the two did meet — 
The singing spring and the flower sweet. 

Thus the spring to the flower did speak : 
"Let me kiss thy snow-white velvet cheek 

As we meet to-day, 

For, far away, 
To-morrow I shall dash my spray 
In a dancing cascade, swift and gay. 
Down the mountain's side so old and gray: 

" I will gather strength when my waves have 

rolled 
Till they glide away where the sunset's gold 

In a deep blue sea 

Melts silently. 

203 



204 FLOWER AND SPRING. 

As I go down to the busy town, 
Stay thou here alone, my Httle one, 
The solitude of this place to crown." 

The sweet flower grew there pure and meek 
As the spring ran down the lake to seek. 

Over rock or stone, 

Sometimes with moan, 
Sometimes with a laugh it rippled on, 
But tarrying not from sun to sun 
It soon to the ocean deep had run. 

The flower stayed up, the spring ran down 
To the far-off^ world and busy town, 

And they thought not then 

To meet again. 
The flower garnered all her rare perfume. 
In the tiny round of a velvet bloom, 
Always sweet in the light or the gloom. 

The winds of Heaven caressed the cheek 
Of the little one so frail and weak. 

And a very far 

Off splendid star, 
By the pale flowers face so beautiful 
Mirrored itself in the crystal pool 
That ever ran, yet was ever full. 



FLOWER AND SPRING. 205 

The soul of the flower, a rare perfume, 
Went on the winds to a sky of bloom. 

Upborne along 

On these wings so strong. 
The soul of the flower, so pure and meek, 
Felt a drop of rain upon her cheek, 
And thus the rain to the flower did speak : 

" Thus thou and I, as perfume and rain, 
Meet, my love and my darling again 

As at last we met, 

My love and my sweet, 
Let me kiss once more thy velvet cheek. 
We meet as before, only to speak, 
My darling, my little one so meek. 

" In an endless circle everywhere, 
Spring to ocean, ocean to air, 

The waters run 

From sun to sun. 
Into silvery vapor, fair and fine. 
Into fleecy clouds that float and shine, 
We shall meet no more dear love of mine. . 

^'Thou, into infinite space somewhere 
Art exhaled, my sweet, my love, my fair. 

While I again, 

As summer rain, 



2o6 PARTRIDGE. 

Must soon to the mountain spring descend^ 
With the river, rill and ocean blend ; 
My life hath not beginning nor end. 

" Will spirit meet, hath the infinite 
Unmeasured space, trysting places sweet ? 

Love will not die. 

Our thoughts soar high. 
Is it dust alone that to Hope clings, 
Or does Psyche rise with star-bright wings 
Into Heaven as she floats and sings ?" 



PARTRIDGE. 




HY soul to brood alone hath taught 
Itself the lesson well, 
Thou hermit of the lonely grot, 
Tenant of the secluded spot, 
Hid in the silent dell. 

The mind that framed the hills for thee 

Knew well the wild bird's want ; 
The fissures of high rock, the tree 
And mountain fastnesses, these be 
Thy solitary haunt. 



PARTRIDGE. 207 

The incarnation thou dost seem 

Of the untamed and wild; 
In loneliness, alone, to dream 
In thicket and by mountain stream 

Which man hath not defiled. 

Embodied shape of solitude 

Thy stealthy footstep falls 
As light as any rustling leaf, 
As softly as the whispering sheaf 

Where thou thy young dost brood. 

Appareled in the russet sere 

To match the russet leaf 
Unheralded thou glidest by 
Still as a spirit wild and shy 

As if possessed by fear. 




DEATH AND SLEKP. 




? S travelers from a foreign land, 

Death and sleep came hand in hand, 
And by a cottage door they stand ; 
They waited till the evening lone, 
Her shadows over earth had thrown. 
A vine's strong stems did interlace 
Themselves with leaves about the place ; 
A friendly bird above the door 
Had built her litttle house for four, 
With this vine's garland shadowed o'er. 

The even time'had lulled to sleep 

Long since this little singer sweet, 

But she awaked these guests to greet, 

And chiding bade them silence keep ; 

And having young ones in her nest 

She hid her head within her breast, 

And sank again to happy rest. 

It was the angel Sleep who spake, 

" Enter we not while any wake ; 

I will within the lattice creep, 

And Death, thou enter after Sleep." 
208 



DEATH AND SLEEP. 209 

Within the house the brothers stand, 

Each whispering clasps the other's hand ; 

Upon its mother's breast the babe 

Asleep its little head had laid ; 

The mother's arm embraced the child 

That dreaming- in its slumber smiled, 

Death whispered, " I will never part 

This infant from its mother's heart ; 

I recognize an angel lent 

To earth in this child innocent," 

But lo ! both shudder in their sleep ; 
Each breathe a sigh long, sad and deep, 
xAlS someting cold, aye, bitter cold, 
Mother and child alike did fold. 
Within a little inner room 
The grandsire slept, the almond bloom 
Snow white in wintry beauty fair, 
The crown of age adorned his hair. 
And on his face one read content, 
Such as doth crown a life well spent. 

Him gently Death approached and spake. 
" Rise from thy dreams, awake, awake ! 
Arise, the waning moon is old, 
Thou hast no treasures here to hold ; 
Pause not for raiment nor for gold, 



RAIL It A Y TRAIN. 

Nor stay to speak a last adieu, 
'Tis not permitted unto you ; 
Our journey lieth very far, 
Beyond the moor by cloud or star." 

Obedient the old man raised 

Him from his couch, and on Death gazed ; 

" Longr have I waited for this hour ; 

I fear thee not nor dread thy power." 

And reaching forth his hand he gave 

It to the anofel of the crrave. 

Like travelers to another shore 

They passed adown the moonlit moor ; 

The silvery mists in cloudlets fell, 

They hid the two, and hid them well ; 

And fading slowly out of sight, 

They passed as phantoms of the night. 



RAILV/AY TRAIN. 




PEED on through the rain, 
Through the sun flying train. 
In the dark, 
Fiery spark, 
Like an arrow shoot ahead, 




GOOD-BY. 211 

If the moon be overspread 

All with black, 

O'er the track 
Run by faith, not by sight, 
Through the blackness of the night. 

You are never out of breath ; 
'Tis a race of life and death. 

Hurry on. 

Haste along, 
Tireless engine, all your fare 
Is of water, fire and air. 

Hasten, pray. 

Leagues away 
In a homestead old and gray 
Anxiously they wait to-day. 



GOOD-BY. 



UR parting time has come, my friend. 
The longest day must have its end : 
Ours longf and sweet at last has run 
Its diamond grains to the last one. 

Fate beckons and compelleth me, 
Dividing me this night from thee ; 



212 G O OD-BY. 

The land fogs creep to meet the sea, 
The sea fogs greet them sullenly. 

Quick, let me grasp thy friendly hand, 
My ship is loosening from the land : 
Good night, good-by, let thy lips meet 
My own once more in kisses sweet. 

Cheer thee, my friend, for leagues away 
From shore the night will turn to-day, 
And summer lands will heave in sight, 
Arrayed in palms or lilies white; 

Fair isles by Southern winds caressed 
And harbors where the sailors rest, 
Where I shall surely wait to see 
Thee, love, for you will follow me. 




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AFRICA. 




ENEATH a palm's scant shade 

A missionary lay, 
The fever of a tropic land 

Had burned his life away ; 
His feeble, trembling hand 

Was grasped by one of alien race, 

Above him bent a dusky face. 

"I leave my work undone," 

He spake in feeble tone ; 
Cheer thee what thou hast well begun, 

Leave to the dusky sons 
Of Africa, and they will do 
The world's last work better than you. 

" Thine was the morning land. 
The realm of ice and snow, 

Our feet do in Time's sunset stand, 
For races come and go ; 

And thine did move in kingly state, 

While mine in abject chains did wait." 

213 



214 AFRICA. 

He knelt and kissed the Saxon's brow 
And said, " You were a king, I know, 
A lovely statue of the snow ; 
But lo the evening's ruddy glow 
Melts thee and all thy ruling race, 
And God appoints us to this place. 

" In the last days He bids us rise 

Into a nation's majesty, 
And walls us in this paradise, 

This sea-encircled Africa, 
And saves us from the Saxon race, 
It may not fill our dusky place. 

"Thine were the ancient times, 
The eastern ligfht that shone 

Serene upon the mountain heights ; 
Those days were thine alone, 

But thou hast tracked thy conquering way 

In blood drops since that early day. 

"The energy was thine 

Of heaven's elder Son ; 
The battles thou hast made and fought 

For righteousness were won. 
But liberty is won, and rest 
Comes as Time's day dies in the west." 



AFRICA. 215 

The Saxon turned away his face and wept 
As the processions of the ages passed. 
The Saxon with his hand all red with blood 
A kingly conqueror stood ; but now 
To close the march of Time another race 
Arose to rule a brilliant sunset world. 
The future of the Africa to be 

Rose on the Saxon's sight like a late star at night, 
All diademed in light, all radiant with delight. 
''All hail to thee, majestic Africa !" 
He cried, as rose the vision bright. 
" The sandals of thy feet they be of spicewood sweet, 
Clasped on with amethyst ; thy breath 
Is full of myrrh and spice and frankincense, 
Thy garment's broidery is wrought in flowing gem 
Even to its trailing hem." 

Thy rest shall be sweet where the spice islands meet 

In the bosom of far away tropical seas ; 

With balm in the breeze under balm dropping trees. 

The terror is drawn from the cockatrice sting, 

And over the blossoming world is no thing 

To molest, there is nothing but rest ; 

The lambs and the lions do all walk together, 

For it is fair weather. 

Fair, oh, how fair ! 
The bow of God's peace, bending, tells of fair weather, 



2i6 OLD MORTALITY. 

Of ripe, golden weather ; all things dwell in concert 

together ; 
Africa leads the way 
To unbar the gates of that glorious day, 
For which all souls pray, 
The millennial splendors shall on her rise 
And the paradise, that promised hope of all centuries, 
Shall dawn first on her wondering eyes. 
So she shall be righted, the last si^all be' first, 
And the golden sands of her wonderful land 
Shall grow shapely in beauty beneath her hand ; 
And her spires shall rise, cross-crowned, to the skies, 
And all tears shall be wiped from her eyes. 



OLD MORTALITY. 




T was thy reverent task to keep 

The memory fresh of those that sleep, 
That men upon the tablet fair 
Might read the record written there, 
To guard the consecrated dust 
Of martyrs was thy chosen trust. 

Mortality the moss has grown, 
The lichens overrun each stone ; 
And all along the graven line 



OLD MORTALITY. 217 

Time hath outgrown that work of thine ; 
Yet heed it not, for never shone 
Sun over such substantial stone. 

Nature did not forget her son, 

The Immortality he won. 

In her own fashion she hath wrought 

To all the poesy of thought, 

The wild rose and the heather meet 

To make the martyr's winding sheet. 

He needs no stone, God keeps his own, 
To every land the deeds are known ; 
And towering o'er the Pyramid 
The grandeur of the work he did. 
Hath now become the whole earth's pride. 
Blessed was the martyr when he died. 

The graver's tools are grim with rust, 
Long since dids't thou resign thy trust; 
Years, with erasures subtle, fine, 
Effaced that pious work of thine. 
What then ? Those names were set so high 
In heaven they could never die. 

And long ago mortality 
Was lost in immortality, 
15 



2i8 CHI CA D E E . 

For God needs not on graven stone- 
To keep the record of His own. 
He drops those brave, heroic deeds 
On human hearts, and there as seeds- 
They sprout and spring to Hfe again^ 
Renewing thus the race of men. 



CHICADEE. 




RAY CHICADEE, frail chicadee. 
Chirping thy Winter song to me 
From the snow- blossomed apple tree. 
Thy agile wing, thy prattling tongue 
Be very pleasant company. 
What carest thou though clouds be hung. 
What heedest thou though boughs be swung 

To tempest keeping time? 
What mind, what sense there is in thee \ 
Thou knowest where the seeds be hid 
'Neath the weed capsule's tiny lid. 
Thou knowest well the mystery, 
The hollows of the beechnut tree ; 
And warm thy tiny inn is bound 
With soft gray moss festooned around. 
There is no clime nor any time 



CH ICAD E E. 

But finds a shelter for its bird. 

The bird's soft word 

Is often through the tempest heard. 

The dearest gift that nature gave 

Was when she taught a wing to wave ; 

When first she saw upon the world 

A bird's light wing unfurled, 

A winged poem of the air, 

A cheerful spirit form so fair. 

Now, if I were a bird like thee, 

I would fly far, frail chicadee. 

For neither time nor space should hold 

Or prison me, a traveler bold ; 

For speckled ruff I would find the stuff 

That stars are made of, and my flight 

Should bring me nearer worlds of light. 

And hark to me small chicadee 

I would find where our lost treasures be. 

My wings to try, *yes, I would fly 

Where youth and beauty do not die ; 

To lands serene and lands unseen 

Where mortal man hath never been. 

Good-by small bird, thou hast said thy word, 

This wintry landscape thou hast stirred. 

The little singing of thy song 

Hath made me for the eternal, long. 



219 



BUTTERFLY. 




HERE do thy pinions dip to dye 

Themselves, light courier of the sky ? 
What flowers have kissed thee till each wing 
Tells tales of every flower of Spring? 

Thou art of heaven and the sky, 
Fair amber-pinioned butterfly, 
Out from the tomb of the cocoon 
You rise to greet the airs of June. 

Fast flying forth on silken wing 
Late of the dust the lowliest thing, 
Now earth's defilements come not nigh 
Thy fairy form, small butterfly. 

What taste is thine only to dine 
On daisy, rose or celandine, 
To taste of consecrated wine 
Out of flower flagons deep and fine, 

To play with all the amber lips 

And lids the connoisseur bee sips ; 

220 



BUTTERFLY. 221 

The very fairest flowers of all 
For thee, gay butterfly, do call. 

All the pastime, of Summer time, 
The joys of the eternal clime. 
Of sun and shine, these joys be thine 
Little air voyager so fine. 

With ladybirds, and moths and bees, 
Buoyant to float upon the breeze, 
Attuned to all the melodies 
Of waving stems and whisp'ring trees. 

Thy wings may not with stains be soiled, 
Yet when a worm through dust you toiled 
A wondrous changre from dust to rise, 
A gem to float on shining skies. 

Illumined texts with you you bear, 
Look on thy wings and find them there ; 
Thou art a spirit these declare, 
Having arisen from dust to air. 

The lessons graven on thy wing 
Are what the saints do hope to sing ; 
In peace frail butterfly go by 
For thou belongest to the sky. 



THE CHURCHYARD. 

Prophet of immortality, 
In peace, fair Psyche, go thy way, 
Priest of the radiant Summer day 
No hand thy litde flight must stay. 

Seeming to die, thou didst not die ; 
Out of the chasm- man must try 
Thou hast emerged a jewel bright. 
Shining and panoplied in light. 



THK CHURCHYARD. 




OME in, come in, and drop thy tear 
O'er' the first violets of the year; 
They who here keep death's endless sleep 
Never do open eyes to weep. 
Anointed with a soothing balm 
Closed are they both to storm or calm. 
They who here rest with folded arms 
Never do miss life's fabled charms. 
Come in, come in, see how the high 
And mighty, by the lowliest lie. 
Rank maketh no division here 
In dust and turf and sod so sere. 
Alas, lover and loved do part, 



THE CHURCHYARD. 223 

Weep here and ease thine aching heart ; 
Come in, thou canst not here intrude 
On deaths eternal soHtude. 

Here underneath its Httle head 

The babe its tiny hand hath laid, 

And dropped the toy with which it played, 

As on death's slumbrous breast asleep 

It doth its lasting slumber keep. 

Bedecked in all her bridal flowers 

The maid sleeps through the silent hours ; 

The soldier by her side lies down. 

The monarch rests without his crown. 

The priest without his stole or gown. 

Come in, come in, and drop thy tear 

On rustling sedges by the bier. 




SIX-PENNY CALICO. 




LL day the burning sun did stream adown the 
..^^Ajv dusky room, 

'^^^''"'^^ And all daylong the giant wheels did drive 

the iron loom, 
And all the day the waters plashed and foamed about 
the flume. 

It was a pleasant stream enough, its waters cold 

and clear, 
Did start from out a mountain spring transparent 

as a tear ; 
It ran through tang-led rose and fern for more than 

half the year. 

It changed its nature when it ran into the mill's deep 

flume, 
Vexed by the wheel it breathed no more of dew-drop 

and of bloom, 
It only as a giant urged the weavers to their doom. 

A woman watched beside the warp that ran upon 
the beam, 

224 



SIX-FENNY CALICO, 225 

Her downcast eyes upon the web to gaze alone did 

seem, 
As mute and stirless stood she as a statue in a dream. 

Her hair had faded till its hue was like the sober 

ash, 
Left of the ember of the fire, that faded with its 

flash ; 
There dropped upon it one red beam of sunset 

throuoh the sash. 

One might a goodly heritage see, were there time to 

look 
Out of the window, meadows green, with sheep and 

plashing brook ; 
There was no time, for all the mill with whirring 

eno^ines shook. 

What time the sunset's crimson light did touch the 

distant hills. 
What time in shining threads of gold ran all the litde 

rills, 
And still the wheel and flume roar on when night 

the wide world fills. 

This woman once had only walked in color of the 

rose, 
And life was beautiful to her as when in youth it 

glows, 



:226 SIX-PENNY CALICO. 

Afar from all life's mountain paths that lead to 
Alpine snows. 

Her faded hair in that fair time was of the hue of 

gold, 
And in a silver comb and pearl all wound about and 

rolled, 
She was too happy then to know that life could ere 

grow cold. 

But fortune failed and then youth's friends like birds 

that will not stay, 
When autumn comes, but seek a land where flowers 

are always gay ; 
Alas ! these gay friends fluttered on like birds that 

fly away. 

In time she came to watch a loom that wove a web, 

I think. 
They printed afterward in buds and twisted stems 

of pink, 
To weave six-penny cloth, sad fate from which one 

well might shrink. 

I do not like the cloth too cheap altho' its stems be 

sweet 
With rosebuds, for I know the girl had not enough 

to eat ; 
With waiting by the noisy loom how weary were 

her feet. 



BUMBLE BEES. 




>A/^ 



'gTvOOM, boom, boom, boom, with shrilly drum 
The humble bumble bee is come 
To bariQ-. to beat the locust tree, 
To thump, to suck its sweets comes he. 

To thump, to bump the clover bloom, 
To croon throuoh meadows of perfume 
A bimbling, bamblino, song of Spring 
The humble bumble bee does sing. 

He shakes the thistle's thorny cup 
And bangs the rose and buttercup ; 
Searches throuo-h fields of sweet buckwheat 
And from all blossoms he doth eat. 

Gathers wild thyme with a sweet rhyme 
And jingle where soft grasses chime. 
Tell us of countries thou hast seen 
Wild bee, of lands where thou hast been. 

Repeat to us thy drowsy hymn 
Small wanderer through woodlands dim. 
227 



228 BUMBLE BEES. 

Croon, croon and croon, and still keep time 
To wimbling, wambling, sleepy rhyme. 

For if there be some weird songs, these 
Be best known to the wandering bees, 
For don't you see so light the bee 
Floateth o'er land and Summer sea. 

And don't you see so many lands 
Visits our bee and understands. 
That he abounds in all the lore 
And legendry of bees of yore. 

The flying bee may tell to thee 
His pedigree and history. 
Of Asia or of Moslem flag, 
Of prairie lone or arctic crag, 

A bumbling, bambling song of June, 
Of fragrant Summer afternoon, 
A bumping, thumping olden rune, 
A wimbling, wambling, rambling croon. 

Of niches where the sunflower burns. 
Of water lily's ivory urns. 
Of chimes of wimble wamble bells 
Soft ringing in the hollow dells. 



BUMBLE BEES. 



229 



Of bells of hollyhocks so deep 
Where a belated bee may creep. 
In whose soft tent a bee may sleep, 
And so forget his boom to keep. 

Through fragrant swamp by crisp cool brake 
The rambling bee his way doth take, 
Crooning along by beds of balm 
With a swift honey bee's salaam. 

Sucking the sweetest flowers of June, 
Loading his honey bags festoon, 
With boom, boom, boom, flower and perfume, 
From morning until evening's gloom. 

Now booming home on wings of wire 
Through fields with sunset flame afire. 
With soft low hum as some tired crone 
Her ditty by the wheel doth drone. 

At Summer's close he having dipped 
Into all flowers and honey sipped, 
Layeth aside his booming drum. 
Nor on his shrilly flute doth thrum. 

Like a tired child he falls asleep 
In peace his Winter nap to keep, 
His boom of Summer is as dim 
To bumble bee as a lost hymn. 



MORAVIAN LOVE FEAST. 



w/^ 



If HE Moravians keep, in a pleasant way, 
^-iri^^ Their harvest feast with a love feast day; 

When the pumpkins done 

Gold brown in the sun, 
Show their spheres as asteroids, one by one, 

Then the thrifty dame 

Does welcome the flame 

Of each golden rind. 

For the innermost find 
Of these pumpkins is better than any mine. 

Each German housewife her loaf doth bake, 

White as snow in its foam and flake. 

For a plentiful feast, raised light with yeast, 

Emulous each to do her best, 

In Sunday clothes dressed 

They meet at the church, with coffee and cake, 

The pleasant feast of the harvest they make ; 

Of the sacrament also they do partake. 

Saying their prayer they sing their tune 

In honor pf the old harvest moon, 
230 



MORAVIAN LOVE FEAST. 231 

In honor of ripening- afternoon, 
Of seed corn. braided in long festoon, 
For apples, nuts, and generous wheat, 
Corn and honey and berries sweet. 

For the partridge dun, 
Clothed as a nun, 

For birds with feathers bright and pied. 
For rabbits that hide in the mountain side. 
For the sheep that doth at home abide. 
For the gentle cow and for hay in the mow,. 
For the hard cord wood so very good 
To burn in the Winter's solitude. 

A crumb of the love-feast bread they spare 
To the stranger guest who happens there ; 
And wine is borne from the wine press new. 
Crimson, and sweet it comes to you, 
For the Elders bear it in sparkling glass, 
Clear as crystal to lad or lass , 
Symbol of love to thee and thine,' 
Sparkles that consecrated wine. 

I did not taste of my crumb that day, 

Not being then in the mood to pray ; 

As a paschal lamb, on the palm of my glove, . 

It lay as an emblem of death and love. 



232 SEPARATION. 

But from the ofothic window came 
A sunbeam, that turned it to instant flame, 
And it was transfigured before my eyes 
By a touch from Paradise. 

And I laid it away in a secret place, 
Carefully hid in a rosewood case, 
And I like to think of the wondrous shine 
That fell on that little crumb of mine ; 
I treasure with care an omen so fair, 
I hide it away like a crystalized prayer. 
For a day of extreme distress, I deem, 
May come when I will be glad of the crumb 
To warm my failing heart cold and numb. 



SKPARATION. 




^m^A ITTLE to us it matters, love, 

Where our poor bodies lie, 
Our souls will seek the worlds above 

To mingle with the sky. 
'Tis love alone that doth not fail, 
That mounts above the funeral wail. 

When life's frail flame rises on high 
To minele with the sun. 



SEPARATION. 233 

Men leave the shattered vase to lie 

Nor heed the broken one, 
Invisible to outward sight 
Burned that alone which fed the light. 

Distance and sea may intervene 

Our dust be severed wide, 
Mine with the ocean deep between, 

Thine on the other side ; 
What matters it since love alone 
Can bridge death's awful chasm lone? 

My soul coming thine own to greet 
Through death's stern conquest cries 

This husk of being it is meet 
To leave where'er it dies, 

Encumbrance of the dust must keep 

Its place where kindred dust doth sleep. 




16 



SPRING AND AUTUMN RAIN, 




l|^ HAT embodied spirit comes again, 
'Tis the soft April rain 
Breathing- o'er willow bouorh, 
Brightening it even now, 
'Tis hfe's strong spirit risen 
Up from the winter prison. 
Hark to the myriad beat 
Of hurrying, pattering feet, 
'Tis the spring rain calHng again 
Life's convenant to renew 
With air and sun and dew ; 
ForetelHng, heralding, 
The songs that blue birds sing. 
Gentle voiced prophet to the sere 
And russet remnant of the year 
Forecasting vernal green, 
And flowering mantles sheen. 
The conquest of the world to make, 
To call the waiting brake 
Out from her hidden nook to look 
234 



SPRING AND AUTUMN RAIN. 235 

On leaf strewn way on windy day, 
Fall gendy gentle rain. 
The whisper of the violet the throb of Summer heat 
These incenses we catch with fleet, 
Swift patter of the drops that beat 
Over the woody stain 
In rivulets of rain. 
Fall gently gentle rain, 
Life's second birth maintain ; 
Sinof of earth's treasure hid 
As under closed eyelid 

Of vernal equinox, uprising feathered flocks, 
With thy soft pattering 
The resurrection sing. 
Call to the trout, silver rain shout 
To silver brook in woody nook, 
Bid her cast off the chain 
Of Winter ice, oh, rain. 

Call sleeping things, wake slumbering wings, 
And with soft heat and gentle beat 
Life's story to the earth repeat. 
Unbind earth's chain of snow, spring rain ; 
Call liverwort and moss, 
Weave rushes all th^ swamps across 
To hide the nests of speckle breasts 
Where they their young caress. 
Crown heaven with the covenant 



236 SPRING AND AUTUMN RAIN. 

Rainbow that God hath lent, 

As its curved prism is bent, 

It's dazzling glint of life shall hint 

In dewy firmament. 
Speak gently rain with gentle drip 
To tender lambs that skip ; 
Drip, drip and drop where promised crop 
Of wheat still in the mold doth stop 
The husbandman from sleep, 
His tryst with earth to keep. 
Call Spring rain, gently call 
As thy soft measures fall ; 
For in thy rhyme is smell of thyme ; 
Are blent in those small drops of thine 
Incense of rose and pine. 



Fall with abated breath, 

Oh drenching rain of death, 

Fall sadly Autumn rain 

Through sorrow and through pain^ 

Until each leaf is riven 

And woods to bareness given ; 

Till earth's sad nakedness 

In sorrow and distress 

Stands bare, revealed 

In wood and field ; 

Till but with tears of rain distilled! 



SPRING AND AUTUMN RAIN 237 

Is earth's great tabernacle filled ; 

Till down heaven's darkened way 

Sinks Autumn's gusty day. 

Till where the crown of crimson burned 

Only is found life's ashes urned, 

Only falls down mande of brown. 

In the low bush the birds' song hush 
And with monotonous beat 
Like million skurrying feet 
Stamp out the violet. 
Blot out the flowers that on the breast 
Of Summer were caressed ; 

And from, his airy home so high 
Drive thou the butterfly, 
Through the drear woodlands moan 
And chant thy dirges lone ; 
Even the grass let not thou pass, 
But spoil each blade, Fall rain, alas, . 
Like falling tears, on windy days. 
Rush through the leaf strewn forest ways 
And catch thou up on sodden wings 
The remnants of all lovely things. 
Sedges all sweet and desolate 
That died last June, in the old moon ; 
That in their day sang love's sweet tune, 
Low and refined to beating wind, 
And all the Summer incenses 



238 LOVE AND FAME. 

Distilled to hum of singing bees. 
Though dead, they speak, each violet 
Doth into lamentation break. 
Bear thou the aromatic pain 
Of flowers distilled in Summer rain. 

Then on each grave 

That thou dost lave 
Rub out all words of hope, and find 
Only the mutterings of the wind. 



LOVK AND FAMB. 




YOUTH as fair as morning light 
:3?lr Went forth a soldier to life's fight ; 

And, as he went, his wind-tossed hair 
Seemed bright as any crown to wear. 

So lithe his form, so light his tread, 

"The youth is winged," you would have said. 

And, more than beauty, hope rose high 
In his man's heart and touched the sky. 

And when glowed the meridian heat. 
Still flew the youth on tireless feet. 



LOVE AND FAME. 239 

But In the war a crimson tide 

Swept o'er him, and the proud youth died. 

Then Fame and Love came hand in hand 
By this dead warrior to stand. 

Love to Fame's shoulder bent her head, 
And wept: "The youth I loved is dead. 

" Fame, it was you who lured him on 
To grasp an unsubstantial crown. 

" I, where the blushing roses hide, 
Besought my darling to abide." 

Fame sighed : " The heavenly youth was mine, 
Toward me aspired his soul divine, 

" Thy rose-forged chain, the common lot ; 
Men wear it, but their names live not; 

" But oh ! to follow after me 
Was to grasp immortality, 

"And, falling in the battle's strife 
I crown them with eternal life." 

As spake Fame thus to sad Love fair 
A new star filled the evening air. 

" Risen into his place !" cried Fame. 
Love sighed, and softly breathed his name. 



MUSIC AND SONG 




HE glow worm at our feet 
Showed its faint spark 
Of phospherescence in the dark, 
So pale, so sweet, 
It might have burned 
On Psyche's brow of stainless white 
When niofht to morning^ turned. 
Save some bird's trill, the night was still. 
There shivered through the woodland dim 
The ghostly voice of whippoorwill, 
The evening's lonesome hymn ; 
And as we saw the evening fall 
Two sisters glided in the hall. 
Even as Christ entered unseen, 
These strangers came in beauteous sheen. 
When first their heavenly words we heard 
A mighty thrill our spirits stirred, 
For Music and her sister Song 
Came in as rushing wind as strong, 
And both were heavenly sweet and fair, 
Lovelier than embodied air. 
240 



MUSIC AND SONG. 241 

They came as crystal mountain stream, 

They came as angels in a dream; 

They brought a breath of mountain fern, 

They came through lands where roses burn 

Perpetual in Summer's urn. 

They brought the breeze's freshening rush, 

The quiver of the forest bush, 

The plaint of sedge, the swing of grass, 

The breath of moss in the morass, 

And all the voices Summer hath. 

They bore our souls aloft, along. 

As if on pinions fleet and strong, 

Into a wonderland of song, 

Till out of inspiration's cup, 

We drank, so were we lifted up ; 

With them we seemed to smile or weep, 

We drank Song's incenses so deep 

That we forget our mortal frame, 

We saw the lands from whence we came ; 

Music and Song did rend away 

From our closed eyes the veil of clay ; 

They taught us where the soul belonged 

Ere of its birthright it was wronged. 

We were as wax, and felt the power 

Of these bright sisters, for an hour 

We repossessed our former dower, 

Opened our ears to music's strains 



!42 FALLING LEAF. 

That run as gold through mountain chains. 

We saw the heritage unseen, 

We saw old worlds, in fiery sheen. 

Rush by to sounds of tambourine ; 

We caught melodious sounds afar 

Onrushing from each distant star ; 

We heard through old cathedrals float 

Devotion's low and minor note. 

We heard where on the flowers dry rim 

The Autumn breezes play their hymn. 

Then Music and her sister Song 

Turned to the clime where they belong ; 

But from Song's radiant mountain height 

They bent their forms so airy, light 

And sang to us "Good-night, good-night.'^ 



FALLING LEAF. 




FALL, yet do not lose my hold, 
Nor drop I out of life's great fold 
Knowing that many a darksome way 
And underground leads up to-day. 
Often neath the tough fibred sod 
Earth's inner pathways I have trod. 
The distillations of the trees 
I know, and all the mysteries 



FALLING LEAF. 245 

Of life, who steeps her cups of balm 
And fragrance in eternal calm, 
Where deep volcanic fires keep warm 
Her nurseries through every storm. 
By water brooks where no man looks 
Deep channelled in unfathomed nooks; 
Oft have I passed these pathways through 
Permeate by eternal dew. 
Here cups of sparkling amethyst 
O'erflow and fill again with mist, 
And crystal bowls hold many a tear 
Down dropping from the blooming year. 
I fall and find life's recompense 
A resurrection centuries hence. 
Leafward aoain will I arise 
To outward bloom and sun and skies. 
None may omit this darksome way 
That from the dust leads up to day. 
With rest and warmth and fragrant sleep 
I fall to earth my tryst to keep. 




THE DYING THIKF. 




ORD when Thou comest to Thine own, 
And when Thou Sittest on Thy throne, 
Remember that the dying thief, 
Was filled with sorrow for Thy grief. 
I should not dare approach Thee then. 
Thou King of kings, Thou Lord of men 
The distance then, too great would be, 
Between the Lord of life and me ; 
Nor could I, even should I dare 
Approach Thee then to make my pi'ayer, 
For it would seem as shame to Thee, 
Audience to hold with such as me ; 
They who attend on kingly state, 
Would drive me from Thy palace gate ; 
But in our dire extremity, 
Thou man of grief and mystery, 
I dare beseech Thee, pity me. 
Thou hast not on Thy majesty, 
Thy signet ring, Thy robe and crown ; 
Thou seemest to dread Thy Father's frown, 

2+4 



THE DYING THIEF. 245, 

Thou criest in Thy agony, 

" My God, hast Thou forsaken Me." 

Lord I shall glory though I be, 
A thief, if Thou dost pardon me ; 
Pity the soul that to Thee cries, 
I know not where Thy kingdom lies, 
But I believe in Thee uncrowned 
And kingdomless, let me be found 
With Thee, my Lord, where Thy estate. 
Thy crown and kingdom for Thee wait. 

It is a shame that I should be. 
Thou sovereign, crucified with Thee ; 
I feel the very heaven to shake. 
The earth to tremble for Thy sake 
Thou dying Lamb, well may the flood 
Of ocean shudder at Thy blood ; 
Nature doth seem to wail and cry 
With wonder that her God can die. 
The voice, that storms and winds obey, 
Does that voice die with Thee to-day ? 
Thou canst not die, I feel Thy power, 
Jehovah in this awful hour, 
A tide of life from Thee to me, 
Runs, Saviour, save and pity me. 

The Saviour closed His dying eyes. 
Whispered, "To-day in Paradise," 



246 SNO JI' BIRD. 

The thief, of all our erring blood, 
First plunged in the ensanguined flood, 
That flowed that day for all. A smile 
Suffused his anguished face the while, 
Peace, pardon, heaven o'er him beamed, 
A dying man by grace redeemed. 
He heeded not the earthquake's shock, 
Nor how the dizzy world did rock ; 
The dying thief believed, and blest 
The uncrowned King whom he confessed. 
He was transfigured in that light, 
That love divine and infinite. 



SNOVv^ BIRD. 




HE snow birds come with ruff and crown. 
Tippets about their throats of down ; 
Like bubbles blown upon the air, 
As lieht these litde wanderers are. 

Only thy mantle's glossy sheen 
Thee and the arctic cold between ; 
And yet thy little form is best 
For winter and the tempest dressed. 

Sifteth the cold snow gendy down, 
Over the meadows and the town ; 



SNOW BIRD. 247 

Though Winter wears this robe of white, 
The snow birds tarry in their flight. 

What treasures have the travelers found? 
What seek the snow birds on the ground ? 
Behold, each humble wayside weed 
Is stored with an abundant seed. 

These weeds be curious granaries, 
Each hungry bird his storehouse sees. 
Dry and hermetically sealed, 
But to a snow birds sense revealed. 

The granary doors open to show. 
How much these arctic wanderers know, 
Responsive to a wing's soft beat. 
Answering to beak and little feet. 

The snow bird like a thresher skilled 
In nature's ways, eats and is filled. 
Sing, litde bird, thy song falls sweet. 
On Winter's face all blurred with sleet. 

Because it is a sono- of faith 
Small, gray-winged, silken-robed wraith, 
God's granaries open everywhere, 
Responsive to the earnest prayer. 



IDLERS. 




DLE let me be Lord ; 

Nor toil within the vineyards of the sun. 

Say that my work is done, 

And give me leave to see 

How the flower clasps the bee, 

How the sun-painted west 

Glows in its radiant vest 

Of gold and amethyst. 

How nodding leaves are kissed 

By every wandering knight 

Of air invisible to sight. 

With all the idlest things 

Let me be inventoried king of kings. 

The remnant of the feast 

Of crumbs, the very least 

Is good enough for me. 

I seek no workman's wage 

Through life's short pilgrimage. 



Yet grant me leave to see 

Sometimes, where clustering be 

248 



IDLERS, 249 

The ripe grapes in the sun, 

Thy face, Thou Holy One. 

But let Thy strong men bear 

The burden of the day, and take my share, 

My recompense and my inheritance. 

Simply to hide within 

Thy glorious kingdom, Thou Eternal King, 

And with the humblest ones of earth to 

enter in 
Through the fair gates of life 
Is all I ask. Spare me the anxious strife 
To toil or care for any worldly gain. 
Give me my wealth in sunshine or in rain 
Or waving fields of grain. 

Thou, Lord, who hast made all 
Creatures both great and small 
Knowest the flower's face 
Is for the summer's grace ; 
That creeping moss in shady place 
Can with tall grasses run no race ; 
That wheat or rye which grow so high 
Can yet not clamber to the sky, 
As elms which in their stately way 
Give shadow in the sultry day. 
And Lord Thou knowest Psyche fair 
Is never fit for any care. 
17 



250 IDLERS. 

Then since Thou knowest how flowers grow, 
How weak we are, how frail and slow, 
And knowest why were we to try 
To toil we never should have strength 
Though summer days were twice their 

length ; 
Forbid that frail and idle things 
Henceforth be vexed with vain strivings 
For riches that we do not want. 
Bid us not toil like bee or ant, 
But bid the flower yield her sweet. 
Dear Lord, that idle things may eat ; 
And through life's arduous, toilsome way^ 
While strongmen work and sweat and pray, 
Keep fresh and green some vale unseen 
Where Thou alone, my Lord, hast been. 
That idle things may enter in. 
All unrebuked, Thy house, my King. 
While strong men say, 
We bore the burden of the day. 
Remember, Thou, how strong they were ; 
Remember, Lord, how weak we are. 
And let us have our litde share. 




^m 







PUSS. 




LY, puss, you look so very wise 

With your half-sleeping, waking eyes. 

But when you raise each slumbrous lid 
I see the flashing emerald hid. 

And oh, how soft the velvet pat 
Of thy foot, leopard coated cat. 

Had I not seen you in the wood 

I might perhaps think you were good. 

Your eyes half closed, you seem so calm, 
Half slumbering in the bed of balm. 

But well I know neath that eyelid 
There is a world of mischief hid. 

Beneath that paw in velvet clad 

The struggling bird you oft have had. 

Come here old puss, sit by me now, 
Be grave and still, and make your bow. 

251 



252 P USS, 

Yes, that is right, hold up your paw^ 
Now puss recite your moral law : 

I must not steal, I must not prowl, 
At midnight I must never howl ; 

No matter how distressed I feel 
My sorrow I must not reveal ; 

I must not look into the cream 
Nor even of its sweetness dream ; 

Nor must I any trespass do 

On the young chicks of neighbor Rew^ 

And I must very busy be 

From rats and mice the house to free. 

I don't like mice, I don't like rats, 
But these be natural food for cats. 

Ah puss you are a dreadful thief 
And some day you will come to grief. 

You looked into the blue bird's house^ 
Now don't pretend it was a mouse. 



PSYCHE. 

And then you climbed along the eaves, 
To watch the robins through the leaves. 

You rambled in the woods to see 
How large the birds had grown to be. 

Well puss now I shall get the stick 
And lay the blows on good and thick. 

Poor puss, the promises she makes, 
To-morrow she as surely breaks, 

For puss is quite the same as men, 
Repenting but to err again. 



253 



PSYCHK. 




HOU needst not care for the rainy day, 
Nor lay stores away ; 
Thou shalt dip thy wings in the rainbow gay 
Where the warm lights play ; 
Thou shalt never know of the darkened way, 
Thou shalt dwell where God is alway. 



Therefore, since thou fearest no rainy day, 
Toil not for the wine or wheat, 



254 PSYCHE. 

For why should'st thou care or wherefore pray 
For that which thou canst not eat. 

With silken flutter of idlest wings 
Follow after the timbrels of Spring. 

Let the toiling bees of honey taste, 

Dripping from golden waste, 
The many petalled and stamened flowers 

To relieve of their loads make haste ; 
But thou the winged one, the divine, 

These are not needs of thine. 

To sing and float, to float and sing 

God calleth some natures to, 
And to these He giveth the kingdoms of light 

The realms of sun and dew. 
Life's toilers may gather of golden wheat 

He shall sing who cannot eat. 




PRIMROSE. 




HO spreads her banner to the evening gale? 
-g It is the primrose pale. 

She caught her saffron hue from Pleiades 
And bloometh to areet these. 

Not to the sun doth this small blossom's face 

Display its fragile grace ; 
But for the stars that kindle evening's sky 

Primrose opens her eye. 

A something mystic o'er her hovereth, 

Her breast she covereth 
With rays that streamed from out the milky way, 

On some forgotten day. 

The night bird's cry unto the primrose pale, 

And make their wail, 
And all the pageant of the upper air 
Glides over primrose, where 

On grassy mound or meadow, low reposing, 

She watches, without closing 

255 



256 PRIMROSE. 

Her eye, her stately kinsmen of the sky 
In golden fleets sail by. 

Thus quietly, within her star dyed vest, 

She leads her life of rest, 
Saintly, in silentness and in repose, 

And has no part with those 

Fair sister flowers whose incenses are cast 

On all winds that go past. 
And if the stars know never that this flower, 

Within night's silent bower, 

Lives in their light and loveliness alone, 

Still, it is true, her own 
Life has grown saintly from her steadfast love 

For these bright worlds above. 

Transfigured in night's aura doth she shine 

As saint before a shrine 
Loving high things, thinking high thoughts, the sweet 

Flower hath for heaven grown meet. 





ISABEL. 

f HE snows of Winter were shining and white, 
The star of the evening was radiantly bright, 
The moon sailed in a gondola of light 
And well, ah well, 'tis a sad tale to tell 

The story of Isabel. 
So fair and so sweet, so frail, so complete, 
Dimples did meet in the rose of her cheek, 
Isabel had not attempted to speak. 
Pink were her fingers, pink were her toes. 
Earth has lost millions of such I suppose. 
Buds of the lily, buds of the rose, 
Paly gold was the shade of her hair 

As oaten straws are. 
Only a nimbus, a faint aureola 

Like a saint's glory ; 
Like midsummer skies, of deep sapphire dyes, 

Such were her eyes ; 
All who looked in them said Isabel 
Knew a volume of wisdom she never would tell ; 
Perhaps she did, but mute as the Sphinx 
She died. W ho can ever tell what a baby thinks ? 

257 



258 ISABEL. 

Perhaps they are links 
Of an infinite chain, far nearer the sphere 
Of the angels than we who grow wiser each year 

Through sorrow and tear. 

The day of the burial came, and through sleet 
They entered the churchyard to lay at the feet 
Of earth, Isabel ; and down the hail beat 
And cut like the sting of a venomous thing 
As it from his wing the cold north wind did fling; 
Thus passed the hail o'er us like death's cold 

river 
And even the tree bouehs did shiver. 

Then Isabel's mother cried, " Oh Earth 

I bring thee the treasure of home and of hearth."' 

" 'Tis well, I shall give her a second birth, 
I shall keep her warm 
And will give her back in another form 
Winsome and fair to her mother's arm." 

Thus answered earth as the dust she pressed 
Soft over sleeping Isabel's breast. 

The mother heard, but she heeded not 
Till she came in Spring to a grassy spot 



NIGHT AND STARS. 259 

And there, where in Winter they rested the bier^ 
A bird had her nest and birdlings near, 
And white from the dust of the sepulchre 

Unstained by a tear 
A cluster of lilies lifted its spear 
Where'er tears had fallen in Winter, the year 
Had closed them around in a fairy ring 
Set full of some beautiful blossoming. 

Nature had spun for the infant a new 
Cover of sunshine, spring-time and dew, 
Roots of wild rose, fibres of moss 
Stretched iheir tendrils across 
The blossominor bed, and Nature had wooed 
The bird and the bee to the sweet solitude. 



NIGHT AND STARS. 




HE paths whereby the eagles tread 
In shining clouds were panoplied, 
And all along by pebbly river 
And meadow, did the sunlight quiver 
And warm and gloriously fair 
Descended softly, everywhere, 
The molten treasure of the air ; 



■^6o NIGHT AND STARS. 

Now dripping from the pendant birch, 
Now folding" round its spire, the church. 
On distant hill-tops it clung clear 
A shining, radiant atmosphere ; 
Dissolving into golden mist, 
Or rippling into amethyst, 
In glory all the wide sky burned, 
Then sudden into twilight turned ; 
Now mildly through a riven bar 
Of cloud appeared the evening star, 
And rose the moon to silver tune 
As closed the summer afternoon 
Serene and fair o'er man's abode 
The empress of the night she trode. 
The hours passed on, and cold and gray 
Leaden mists o'er the mountains lay, 
. And scarce the traveller could discern 
Which way his dusky path might turn ; 
But yet this darkness did reveal 
The turning of heaven's star set wheel, 
Heaven's distant watch fires burning well, 
And many a twinkling sentinel. 
Man read of Time's eternal youth, 
T)arkness made visible the truth. 
The air of heaven itself did beat 
To movement of each starry fleet, 
And worlds whose light eternal burned, 



MY HEART. 2611 

Their pale, sad lustres to him turned. 

High over head old Orion 

His scabbard and his blade had on. 

And like a hive of busy bees 

Clustered the golden Pleiades, 

And fixed and solemn stood the pole 

Round which all worlds did seem to 1 olL 

Day's golden curtains lifted high 

Revealed a star bestudded sky. 



MY HEART. 




OME doleful day I know you must 
Resign, my heart, thy faithful trust. 
I sometimes shudder to lie down 
In sleep that doth day's labor crown^ 
Fearing that with life's fever heat 
Fatigued you may forget to beat. 
No slave had ever work to do 
So constant, faithful heart, as you. 

Life's flood-tide ruddy as a flower 
Pours through thy portals hour by hour 
So as thy gates of valves do close 
Thou hast short time for thy repose, 



262 MV HEAR T. 

Only the fraction of a brief 
Second, poor heart, for thy rehef. 
What is a warrior's work to thine 
Muscle so pliant, strong and fine? 

Emotion must not add a load 
To thee, my heart, nor passion goad, 
Thou marvel of integrity, 
Diastole and systole 
Exhaustion, friction, all in thee 
Complete and perfect as can be ; 
And endless motion one may see 
Who studies thy machinery. 

I shudder often, for I know 

How near thee death and life do flow ; 

One side thy valves the exhausted blood, 

The other, rosy with its flood 

Of bright red blood, touched with the fine 

Scarlet that in the air doth shine. 

I knew thy work must cease at last. 

When man's short seventy years be passed 

As on a distaff all unwound 

The flax that made the thread is found, 

So will it be when life's last thread 

Runs from the wheel which thou hast fed. 




GOOD-BY. 




'UR partinor time is come, my friend, 
The longest day must have an end. 

Ours long and bright at last has run 
Its diamond grains to the last one. 

And now stern fate compelleth me, 
Divideth me this night from thee. 

The land fogs creep to meet the sea. 
The sea fogs greet them sullenly. 

Good-night, good-by, let thy lips meet 
My own once more in kisses sweet. 

For howsoever sweet love be 
It endeth in death's tragedy. 

Quick let me grasp thy friendly hand 
My ship is loosening from the land ; 

I hear dire mutterings in the clouds, 
Strange winds are piping in the shrouds. 

263 



264 GO on -BY. 

Cheer thee my friend, for leagues away 
This dreary night will turn to day. 

Some new found land will heave in sight 
Arrayed in palms and lilies white, 

Fair isles by Southern winds caressed 
And harbors where the sailors rest. 

And now farewell, a mighty lift 
From death's great undertow and rift 

Impels me toward the unknown shore, 
Good-by, on earth we meet no more. 

This bark of mine already dips 
Into death's measureless eclipse. 




